Chasing Darkness Away Snape In Love
by rickfan37
Summary: Severus Snape is married and looks back on his horrific Death Eater past and how his passionate relationship with Ella taught him how to love. Companion story to Snape In Love. Contains some adult themes.
1. Tribulation

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

****

This is one of two companion pieces I am writing to complement my novel 'Snape In Love'. Since I chose to write 'Snape In Love' in the first person, I found after I had finished that there was more I wanted to say, about how Snape and Hermione viewed the events covered in the two year time span of the plot. Both are, I am afraid, 'alternate universe' stories since they do not take account of certain events that occurred in Order of the Phoenix. Although I am writing them after Book 5's publication, 'Snape In Love' was written well before, and so they must conform to that story and not canon.

This piece tells Snape's side of the story. It begins after the end of 'Snape In Love', but before the epilogue. It is set at the end of the summer holidays after their wedding, and this is where each chapter begins, but the main body of the story is told in flashback, and from Snape's point of view. 

If you haven't already, I strongly recommend that you read 'Snape In Love', otherwise parts of the story might seem a little confusing. I do not simply rewrite the original story from another point of view; rather, I try to portray Snape's emotions and neuroses, and explain what experiences had shaped him into the man with whom Ella falls in love. 

You might find this first chapter a little heavy, as there was a need for a good deal of exposition; setting the scene for later chapters.

I hope you enjoy it.

****

****

**Snape In Love; Chasing Darkness Away**

**_By Rickfan37_**

****

****

****

**Chapter 1**

**Tribulation**

****

He woke up stifling a scream, shaking and sweating. Years of rigid self control and the absolute necessity of hiding his true feelings enabled him to hold back from grasping her sleeping form and pulling her to him, even though she knew his weakness, knew everything about him and embraced it all. Well, not quite everything. There were things he kept from her still, he knew, but only because he tried still to keep them from himself. He suspected that she guessed at them, anyway.

Wrapping his arms around himself, he lay on his side, willing the nausea to subside and gazing at her as she slumbered. Moonlight slanting through the high arched windows of their room outlined the curve of her hip as she lay with her back to him, her chestnut hair spread across the pillow. He shifted position slightly, edging a little closer to her warmth so that he could bury his nose in her soft curls and breathe in the scent of her shampoo, a strange but not unpleasant concoction of oranges and coconut, and the scent of her. His wife. Ah, how he loved her.

As if she could sense his need for her, she turned over in her sleep and grunted softly as her arms reached out for him, embracing him, one snaking around his back. She snuggled against him with a contented sigh and he enfolded her then, as she did him, and the frown line between his brows deepened as he fought not to crush her to him in his need for her comfort. He buried his nose in her hair once more and let her softness drive his demons away.

The next time he opened his eyes the silvery moonlight had been replaced by bright early morning sunshine, and he was alone. He experienced a surge of blind, heart-stopping panic, followed by a wave of relief as he heard her through the opened bedroom door, singing softly.

"Ella?" he called, sitting up, prepared and yet still amazed at the sight of her as she re-entered the room, smiling and warm, his infant daughter in her arms. His wife. His daughter.

"Oh, you're awake at last!" she said, leaning over to lay the baby in his outstretched arms before climbing back into bed beside him. Taking his face in her hands she nuzzled his sizeable nose with hers before kissing him tenderly and continuing, "I thought you were going to sleep all day! Do you know, I had to _wrench_ myself out of your arms to go to Persephone, and even then you didn't stir!"

He looked down at the small, grizzling child in his arms, her wild black hair sticking out from her head at all angles, her tiny fists bunching and waving around as her legs drew themselves up to her tummy, and back down again. Swallowing an unexpectedly large lump in his throat, he stroked her cheek tenderly with a long, delicate finger, and she turned her head reflexively towards it, rooting impatiently.

"She wants you, love," he murmured. "She's always hungry!"

"Mmm," agreed Ella cheerfully, sitting cross-legged beside him as she waved her wand over their many pillows, plumping them up behind her before settling back into a comfortable position. "She's _very_ demanding. I can't imagine _where_ she gets it from!"

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," he replied airily, kissing Persephone on her forehead and reluctantly relinquishing her to his wife's capable hands.

He stayed where he was for a while, watching, but the vision of his wife and child, wrapped up in one another, was too much and he could not bear to be anything less than a full participant in their bliss. Reclining beside her, Severus slipped his arm around his wife's shoulders and kissed her before resting his chin on her shoulder with his cheek against hers, to watch his baby as she fed.

"You had another dream last night, didn't you?" Ella said quietly, her cheek rubbing gently against his early morning stubble as she spoke. He froze for a moment, his hand poised over her chest, motionless as Persephone's tiny fist enclosed his finger.

"I didn't know I'd woken you. I'm sorry."

"That's the whole point, you_ didn't_ wake me, and _I'm_ the one who should be sorry, for sleeping through it!"

"Then how do you know?"

"I saw the fear in your eyes just now when I brought Persephone in. I know that look, and it hasn't been there for a long time. Not since – not since the dreams stopped, months ago."

He sighed heavily, but did not speak. He could not deny that she had seen into his soul, yet again, and yet he did not want to confirm it to her either, even as he knew he did not need to. She knew him too well.

"When did they come back, love?"

So, he thought, she knew this was not the first recurrence of his nightmares.

"The first one was – a week after our wedding – "

"Oh, Severus!"

" – I've had several more, since then."

"How many?"

"Enough. More than enough."

They fell silent then, and watched Persephone. At last, Ella laid her on the bed, between her knees, and they absorbed themselves, for a while, in watching her gurgle and kick. At length, Severus sighed heavily once more and said,

"If I could tell you…tell you everything…could you bear to hear it?"

His only answer was a fierce hug as Ella threw her arms around his neck and clasped his head to her shoulder.

                    ********************************************

Darkness. The rank stench of putrefaction. The steady drip of water from damp, glistening permeable rock echoing into the avid silence.

It always began like that. The Dark Lord preferred his Death Eaters to emerge from the blackness of the tunnels slipping and stumbling and clumsy of foot, their flesh crawling as they retched and gagged. It made it all the more amusing when they prostrated themselves before him. His chamber, his sanctuary for ten long years now, was harshly illuminated with black light, casting no shadow but throwing everything therein into flat, dead, unreal relief. Snape knew this, for this was what he saw, a mocking reminder of a childhood fear, long dead but resurrected on the whim of a madman. He strongly suspected that each one of Voldemort's Death Eaters was given their own personal, and private, vision of hell to endure. He did not know, for he never asked, but once his own memories had been subdued in the need for strength in the present, he would glance around him casually, noticing the beads of sweat on nervous brows, the sudden starts as some new horror was manifested, for its recipient's eyes only. Once Bellatrix Lestrange had been careless enough to mutter to Snape, 

"Do you see it? Do you?" as her eyes stared into an empty corner, widening in recognition of some unnamed terror only she could see. Her loquacity was punished, swiftly, and her trembling lips never mentioned the matter again. 

Snape often wondered what the true appearance of the lair would be, were the glamours to fall. Would he see a stark, white compound, cold and clinical, with no corners and no end? Perhaps Voldemort fancied himself an emperor, on a velvet-covered throne on a huge dais in a room of the finest marble, colonnaded as far as the eye could see. Or would they simply be in a rank, damp dungeon, hewn from the same stone as the walls outside. Fruitless to speculate, he knew, but it passed the time and helped to drive the visions of garishly painted moving figures and the grinding of hidden machinery from his mind, and for that he would be grateful. Voldemort had plucked the memory of his childhood terror from his mind long years ago, when he had been but an untrained apprentice and too arrogant and thirsty for knowledge to waste his time learning to school his thoughts and rein in his emotions. He knew better now. It was odd, though, he mused on a regular basis, how one single defining childhood event retained the power to drive him to his knees thirty five years later. Even when he knew he would be faced with it over and over, still it never lost its power to shock him. 

Nevertheless, Snape had been able to conceal his sickening disorientation well ever since the first time he was summoned to that particular place. He wondered many times thereafter whether that had proved a good thing, in the end, or whether the intensive training Dumbledore had insisted he undergo that had given him his almost preternatural self control had done him a disservice in the long run. 

Sixteen long years after first becoming a Death Eater, Voldemort's power was waxing once more and Snape's longstanding role within the Order of the Phoenix as a spy on behalf of Albus Dumbledore and, indirectly, the slow-to-be-convinced Ministry of Magic, was becoming ever more dangerous. He supposed he ought to feel grateful that he was one of Voldemort's favourites, he would think bitterly, lounging against a wall, arms folded, struggling to keep the bile from rising in his throat as he forced himself to remain impassive while watching yet another Muggle gang raped by Malfoy's coterie. Voldemort never forced him to participate, hadn't in fact for over ten years. Not since the last time that – no. Not since then. Malfoy called him a cold fish, and an impotent one, moreover. Snape cultivated that image. It was in every way preferable to the alternative. He feared that his enforced participation could reawaken Voldemort's interest in him and, even worse, result in a renewal of systematic, obscene abuse, the memory of which he had tried to suppress for most of his adult life.

He owed the Potter boy a huge debt of gratitude, he knew that, and it stuck in his craw to admit it, even if only to himself. To be beholden to a baby – James Potter's baby, no less! -  for putting an end to two years of horrific abuse was humiliating in the extreme. 

The physical scars were long gone, and only Poppy Pomfrey had known the full extent of his injuries, since she had been the one to tend him in those first weeks following his arrival at Hogwarts the night Lily and James died. The psychological scars remained, spreading and calcifying over the years to form a protective shell around him that no-one could crack. The 'cold fish' image he cultivated was not entirely fabricated, either. He had been impotent for at least five years after Voldemort's fall, and when he had returned to his side as a spy it was easy to subdue himself and his needs under a thick veneer of boredom and detachment, because his instinct for self-preservation positively screamed at him that this was the safest course of action to take.

So, he would watch, seemingly bored, as Crabbe and Goyle, Avery and Nott, were egged on by Lucius Malfoy to outdo one another in performing the cruellest and most debauched acts, and he was for the most part ignored. Now and then Malfoy would try to provoke him, but his iron self control meant that he did not rise to the bait.

The only flaw in his approach was the opportunity it afforded Voldemort to test him. When he tired of watching his loyal Death Eaters' sport, Voldemort would turn to Snape and casually inflict Cruciatus, over and over, to see how well he would withstand it. No longer interested in sexually abusing his erstwhile young protégé, he sliced through Snape's reserve with a flick of yellow taloned fingers instead, leaving him writhing in agony on the floor at his feet, forced to lick Voldemort's boots even as he nearly passed out, his consciousness trying to flee from the pain. Voldemort preferred inflicting Cruciatus to sex, that much was apparent. Snape preferred it, too.

Snape's self –made fortress protected him from the Dark Lord, it was true, even without the rigorous Occlumency training given him by Dumbledore, but he had always had a predisposition for solitude, and years of rigid self discipline had left him inherently aloof, with no real desire for other people or their company. He knew that people tolerated him, liked him, even, in some instances – Dumbledore for one, and the werewolf too, inexplicably – but he shied away from them. He neither deserved nor allowed their good intentions, and he rebuffed any physical contact they tried to make. Each time Remus Lupin tried to shake his hand he ran the risk of Snape hexing him, and even a friendly pat on the shoulder from Albus made him flinch. He was impervious to warmth. He could not afford to be any other way. 

Legilimency was a related skill that Snape sometimes wished he did not possess. When he looked into Lupin's eyes he could read a wary regard, a hesitant desire for friendship and a feral anger, at times, at what he saw as Snape's obtuseness. Snape was disinclined to correct him. Dumbledore was a master Occlumens himself, but there were certain emotions that he never tried to conceal from Snape, including a regard so strong and esteem so high that it was incomprehensible and painful in its unwelcomeness. He did not try to read Albus very often, for that reason. And as for the idiot Black…the hatred had dulled over the years to a mild dislike tempered with guilt and regret at the follies of youth. Snape's enmity of Black, however, remained undimmed, blazing in his gut on the all too frequent occasions their paths crossed.

He was called frequently to Voldemort's side. He had become accustomed to the tightening of the skin on his forearm that foreshadowed the searing hot agony of the summons, and when he felt it this time, sitting in Albus' study with a snifter of fine cognac, he had winced and rolled up his sleeve. He stared at his arm, waiting for the sudden blaze of crimson that shot white hot needles of pain into his every fibre.

"Oh, my dear boy. Not again, not so soon," the Headmaster had murmured, rising swiftly and crossing to Snape, placing his hand on his shoulder, forgetting himself in his concern for the younger man. Trying not to recoil from the physical contact, Snape's face had tightened, and the old man had frowned in sadness, aware of the degree to which his young friend suffered.

"I don't – I don't know how long I'll be gone, this time. I tell him I have little difficulty keeping you in ignorance, and it pleases him to think he can keep me away from Hogwarts in term time. Something's afoot, I know that much."

"Much as it grieves me to say it, old friend, I fear that you will be of far more use to us there even than you are here at Hogwarts."

Snape glared at Dumbledore out of habit, but then shook his head resignedly, knowing that the Headmaster spoke the truth and wishing he could contradict him.

"Give the dog its bone for a while, then, if you must," he said wearily. "Let's see how it manages all the nubile sixth and seventh year girls. It'll think all its Christmases have come at once!"

"Now, Severus, I am sure Sirius will step into your shoes – or try to," Dumbledore amended hurriedly as Snape shot him a sharp scowl, "with the utmost professionalism! I would not employ him were I to suspect otherwise."

"Hmph," snorted the younger man, pinching the top of his large nose between his fingers and rubbing the flattened diamond on its bridge absently. "What possessed you to I'll never understand."

"Ah, Severus, if I did not make a habit of welcoming lost causes, his is not the only life that would be quite different now," Dumbledore said meaningfully, piercing Snape with a glance over the top of his half-moon spectacles.

"Yes, well, yet again, you have the last word," Snape complained grudgingly. The Headmaster gave a hollow laugh, becoming serious once more as Snape suddenly gasped in pain and turned away, clutching his forearm.

"Please be careful, Severus!" he said quietly as Snape strode from the room.

Weeks passed. Snape was not fully aware of how much time sped by while he was incarcerated in Voldemort's own private hell. Voldemort had a way of stretching and flexing time to his will. In his bleaker moments, usually when he was lounging against a wall, seemingly bored out of his mind watching Goyle or MacNair perform some debauchery on the limp form of an unfortunate Muggle, Snape would wonder whether, when he returned home, he would find the school in ruins, all his colleagues long dead and the name Hogwarts long forgotten. Such was Voldemort's power, and to do so would suit his twisted, petulant sense of fun. Fortunately, however, Voldemort's vanity and his ability to bear a grudge outweighed those finer qualities, and to rob himself of too much time would mean forfeiting his supposedly vital revenge on Albus Dumbledore and anybody else who had ever crossed him. Snape therefore knew that once Voldemort released him, each time there would at least be a home for him to return to, to lick his wounds and regroup before the next assault.

He knew better than to speak to the Dark Lord unless spoken to. He had made such a mistake, once. Only once. Sometimes Voldemort went into trances that lasted for hours, maybe even days. Snape would take advantage of these reveries to indulge himself by wallowing in bitter memories, and wonder why on earth he had changed sides in the first place. Dumbledore was just as persuasive as Voldemort, in his own way. Dumbledore had betrayed him when he had kept Sirius Black at the school after the Whomping Willow incident in their youth, and now Snape was expected to smile sweetly and allow the idiot loose in his classroom, and his own private storeroom too. Dumbledore had refused to listen to Snape, then and now. But on the other hand, Dumbledore had taken him in when common sense would have dictated that he send him to Azkaban to receive the Dementor's Kiss. And Dumbledore had never, and would have never, assaulted him so violently both physically and magically that when he had first returned to Hogwarts Madam Pomfrey had fainted clean away at the appalling injuries she was supposed to heal. In recent years, of course, she was faced with the results of Voldemort's zealous use of Cruciatus with such monotonous regularity that she became almost as inured to it as did he. 

He tried as delicately as he could to discover Voldemort's plans, but got the distinct impression that the Dark Lord was deliberately less forthcoming than in the past. He performed the expected humiliating obeisance, prostrating himself on the floor at Voldemort's feet, licking his boots, ignoring the dull ache in his kidneys caused by hour after hour of standing in attendance at his right hand, but received none of the usual scraps of information, usually gleefully imparted, which were his reward for such dedication to his master. Voldemort's pet, the object of Lucius Malfoy's suspicious jealousy.

If Voldemort had come to any strategical decisions, then Snape had not been made party to them this time, and he wondered whether Lucius Malfoy's supercilious smile had anything to do with that. 

His position was becoming more and more precarious, and the line he trod ever more fine. On the one hand he told Voldemort that he was reporting back faithfully every detail of inaccurate propaganda supplied by the Dark Lord, while at the same time striving secretly to separate fact from fiction. Something he had been singularly unable to do, this time. And on the other hand, he fed Voldemort a constant diet of misinformation, helpfully supplied by the Ministry, via Dumbledore of course, since the fastidious officials there would not want to get their hands dirty by dealing with an ex Death Eater themselves. 

Furthermore, he suspected that someone at the Ministry was not doing their job as assiduously as before, since the half-truths from the Ministry had been less well though out latterly, almost as if his role was assigned less and less importance. It had been far better when he took his instructions from his fellow members of the Order, rather than some faceless Percy Weasley-type quill-pusher sitting behind a desk with no conception of the risks he had to face.

Eventually he was dismissed and allowed to go home, but not before being made to suffer several hours of Cruciatus, as punishment for the failure of his last piece of intelligence to yield any fruit. Crawling a few feet from his erstwhile master, his pride forced him to his feet despite the agonising after-effects of the curses, which left cramps shooting along his limbs and a liquefying tension in his guts which demanded expulsion by one means or another from his weakly protesting frame. He managed to get over two thirds of the way down the pitch dark corridor leading from Voldemort's realm before he gave in to the demands of his shattered body, and was violently sick.

He apparated at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, fell to his knees and gulped in the heavy, damp, mossy air in harsh heaving breaths. He knew the Forest well, but a quick glance at the sky told him that it would soon be dusk, and he did not wish to linger there any longer than was absolutely necessary. Although proud of his own abilities to the point of arrogance, nevertheless he had sufficient self-awareness to accept his own limitations when in extremity. He would be no match for the Forest's less amenable denizens while still suffering from the cumulative effects of repeated subjection to one of the Unforgivable curses.

It took longer than usual for him to stagger back to the school, and by the time he reached the side entrance which gave on to the kitchens, the sky was purpling to black. Holding on to the walls as he walked to steady himself, he was almost on his knees by the time he flung open the kitchen doors. Grabbing the nearest house elf by the baggy neck of its greying vest, he rasped, 

"Get Pomfrey!" before collapsing onto a bench set at one of the four long tables. He did not even feel the pain in his head as it hit the oak table with a hard thunk.

He ought to have spent the following day in the Infirmary, but he woke with the dawn, writhing in pain in the narrow metal-framed cot and roaring out for Madam Pomfrey, and insisted she let him return to his own rooms with a large supply of the healing potion he himself had brewed. She went through the usual pretences, he noticed. Never one to neglect her duty, she would not discharge him from her care without their habitual arguments, and if he were honest with himself, their verbal sparring and her longsuffering disapproval were balm to his soul, signalling a return to normality, a mundane reminder that he had survived once again, and that the routine of his life at Hogwarts would soon reassert itself. Until the next time he was summoned, at least.

Back in the sanctuary of his rooms he sat shakily in the armchair beside the fire and called Albus Dumbledore. The debriefing was mercifully short, since there was little to report, despite his absence of more than three weeks. As soon as it was over, he went to bed, with a supply of healing potion on his bedside cabinet, and a draught of Dreamless Sleep potion, just in case. 

One and a half days later, the nausea was gone and the tremors no longer wracked his body, although his hands still shook uncontrollably every time he began to dwell on what he had been forced to witness in Voldemort's lair. The Headmaster had suggested he try to be present at breakfast that morning, and although he had no desire for company, he acquiesced. Regular attendance at mealtimes in the Great Hall was expected of him. It was his duty, and he took pride in fulfilling his obligations where Dumbledore was concerned. Snorting bitterly as he shrugged on his black frock coat and began to fasten its long line of buttons, he rued the contradictory nature of his self-made moral code, and wondered not for the first time whether the end truly did justify the means. He still had no answer, and doubted he ever would, so in the mean time, all that he could do was carry on, try to atone for the sins of his youth, and try to redress the balance.

Even though each enforced visit to the Dark Lord's lair caused him more and more stress, he could still do his duty. He had no weak spots. And then he saw Ella for the first time, and suddenly his life became so much more difficult. Now, he had an Achilles heel.


	2. Irritation

**Chapter 2**

**Irritation**

****

Ella was the strong one, now. As they sat together in their bed, Persephone on her knee, he rested his head on her chest and supposed that she always had been. She had always been so certain and so single-minded, even during the dark days of her early pregnancy, whereas he had been undecided and too frightened of his own past to surrender his sense of self, and his heart, to another. 

Ella's arms were wrapped around his shoulders and her gently stroking hands caressed his cheek, the back of his neck, and his hair. She soothed and calmed him, she was a balm to his soul, and he sank into her willingly and succumbed to her power.

His voice, at times muffled in the in the deep, soft valley of her breasts, had not faltered as he spoke, but she could hear the fear and the loathing in his tone and more than anything in the world she wanted to take his pain away. She had healed him, she knew; her removal of his Dark Mark had been a redemptive experience for them both and had freed him in a deep, spiritual way that even their shared love had only partially managed to do. 

Now, confiding in her, trusting her not to reject him whatever he told her even when it concerned herself, knowing he was secure in her love, he began to open the floodgates that events on their wedding night had unlocked, and his long-suppressed memories began to flood out, to be absorbed in the earth of her quiet strength.

                    ************************************************

He needed routine, he decided as he straightened his frock coat and brushed an imaginary speck of dust from his shoulder. The sooner he settled back into his regular habits, the sooner the nightmares would lessen in intensity. He had long since given up hope that they would ever go away. Satisfied at last with his appearance and greatly looking forward to his breakfast, he glowered at his reflection and made for the door that connected his comfortably appointed bedroom to the organised chaos that was his private office. He closed and warded the door behind him, and took in the room slowly and methodically, ensuring that nothing had been changed in his absence. He did grudgingly allow Black access to his office while he was away, but knew that the other man actually respected his privacy and used it only when absolutely necessary. It was unusual for Black to show such finer feeling, and Snape was, naturally, suspicious as to why he should be any different in this instance. He suspected Dumbledore to have had some part in it, however, unwilling to concede that Sirius Black might simply be a tad more sensitive than he wanted to give him credit for.

His classroom and private stores, however, were a different matter, and he scowled as he entered the large empty classroom. Items had been moved, only to be replaced at the wrong side of the room; cauldrons were heaped on a workbench in the corner, and not neatly stacked the way he always insisted they were, and nor had they been cleaned to his own personal level of satisfaction; unmarked parchments littered the usually pristine expanse that was his desk. 

Muttering under his breath, he made determinedly for his storeroom, not daring to let himself be any more distracted by the state of the classroom, saving his ire for the storeroom instead. He flung open the door and with a sharp intake of breath surveyed the chaos before him. How could one man destroy such a perfectly foolproof system of cataloguing and storage in so short a time? Clenching his fists, he was about to set himself to the task of restoring a desperately needed order when the gnawing ache in his stomach reminded him that he had not eaten in several days. Cursing in exasperation, he turned on his heels and headed for the Great Hall.

As he strode along the dimly lit dungeon corridors he began slowly to calm down. There was something very comforting about Hogwarts. Serene, unchanging routine seemed to breathe from the very bedrock of the castle, rising upwards as it permeated through its walls, strengthening as he rose higher into the castle until by the time he reached the Entrance Hall he was soothed and reassured. Even the clatter of hundreds of footsteps echoing off the stone floors, signalling the hordes of nauseatingly excited students heading for porridge, bacon and eggs, was welcome to his ears, as it was one more constant in a world for whose continuity he feared. For now, though, all was well, now that he was home. 

All he had to do for now was run the gamut of stares and whispers as he entered the Great Hall, glare at all the first years, bar the Slytherins, of course, to whom he would have to introduce himself later on, and ignore Lupin and Black as best he could. Black, he hoped, would have the good sense not to try to bring him up to speed while he ate; he did not trust himself to be civil so early in the morning, and tomorrow was soon enough for him to officially give Snape his job back. And as for Lupin, all Snape could do was to pray to the Fates that the werewolf would be too ravenous to try, in his sickeningly well-meaning way, to make conversation. He took a deep breath, glared menacingly at some straggling Hufflepuff third years on their way into the Hall, and made his entrance.

He swept along the long tables, filled now with inanely chattering students, staring resolutely ahead, avoiding all eye contact and thus the risk of accidentally using his power as a Legilimens and discovering what the little brats were up to. He would rather not know, at least not until his hunger had been assuaged, and he often feared that his weakened physical state would have a deleterious effect on his mental stamina, too. He grimaced as he saw Lupin and Black already in their places. Acknowledging their greetings with a curt nod, he scraped back his chair and took his place at the high table, sighing inwardly as a large bowl of steaming porridge liberally sprinkled with salt and syrup materialised in front of him, the smell wafting up and curling into his flaring nostrils. He picked up his spoon and began to eat. Every spoonful he took felt like a wave washing over him, soothing and comforting him, reducing his inner tension by degrees, the trembling in his hands subsiding as the porridge warmed him through. This was normal, this was his routine, and everything was as it should be. "All is well, all is well," he repeated in his head, like a mantra.

All, however, was not well, and by the time he had emptied his bowl and it had been magicked away, he had begun to feel distinctly uneasy. He lifted bible black eyes from the table in front of him for the first time since sitting down that morning, and frowned around the room until his eyes rested on a stranger, the probable cause of his consternation, sitting almost directly opposite him on the other wing of the staff table. 

A beautiful young woman – no, not young at all, although younger than him – and not particularly beautiful either, he told himself as her eyes dropped from his. She had been staring at him, he realised, berating himself for not noticing immediately that a stranger was in their midst. He had been so busy trying to immerse himself once more into the blessed mundanity that was his life at Hogwarts, trying to forget the horrors of the previous few weeks, that he had let slip his guard. So much for all his training, he thought, angry with himself but even angrier that nobody had seen fit to tell him of her appointment. 

He had no idea who she was, how long she had been there, or what was her position in the faculty, since she must now be on the staff to be sitting at the staff table. She certainly appeared to be right at home, because Madam Pince was chatting to her in quite an animated fashion. He surmised that she must have been there for quite some time, since Irma Pince was hardly known for her extroversion. He would find out later on, no doubt. He would make sure of it. He would go to the library and ask Pince. He certainly had no intention of asking either Lupin or Black who the woman was. He would not give them the satisfaction, and they would only surmise that she had unsettled him.

And unsettle him she had…What did she think she was doing, staring at him like that? She was doing it again now, and his eyes locked with hers once more. This time hers did not drop. She held his gaze, and hers was clear and puzzling. Why didn't she look away? All he could see was her eyes. Irritated beyond all rational thought, he forgot that his stomach was still aching for more sustenance, and he pushed back his chair and stalked from the Great Hall, back to the solitary sanctuary of the dungeons.

He sat by the fire in his bedroom with a large cup of coffee brought to him by a nervous house elf, brooding into the flames. She must be in her thirties, he thought. He had no idea of her height, since she had been sitting down, but her build was…voluptuous. Her robes had been unfastened, and the tee-shirt underneath appeared, to his admittedly untrained eye, to be far too tight. Her hair was long, wavy, and dark brown. Chestnut, he supposed. Her face had been tolerably attractive, with clear skin, full rosebud lips, generously sized, slightly arched eyebrows framing wide, expressive eyes. Eyes that seemed to have little sense of decorum, he scoffed, uncomfortably aware that he had noticed far more about her than he cared to admit. Eyes that had stared at him far too curiously for his peace of mind, damn her! What gave her the right to look at him like that? Had she _any_ idea who, and what, he was? He drained his coffee cup and turned his attention to the large plate of full Scottish breakfast that had materialised on the table beside him. At least the house elves were their usual efficient selves, he thought grimly. Some things could be relied upon not to change.

Some time later, sitting back in his winged leather armchair, he nursed his third cup of coffee and mused on the delightful sensation of feeling replete. Then his eyes narrowed once more as he remembered the reason for his hasty exit from the Great Hall.

He ought to have been shown the courtesy of being informed. As Head of Slytherin House it was his right to be made aware of all staffing changes and additions, even if he was denied the power of veto, as had happened in the cases of Lupin and Black. He had half a mind to call the Headmaster immediately and demand an explanation, but one of his favourite reference books, on permanent loan from the library, had gone missing from the desk in his office and since he already intended to tackle Madam Pince as to its whereabouts, his original idea of a little light interrogation about the mysterious woman would serve to add an extra fillip to his morning.

Setting down his cup on the small tray next to his chair with deliberate care, he smirked grimly to himself and brushed some stray crumbs from the front of his frock coat. Arranging his teaching robes so that they hung from his shoulders in neat folds, he walked briskly from his bedroom out into the Potions corridor, and locked and warded the door before setting off in the direction of the library.

The library was quiet, and its librarian was not at her usual station, a desk just inside its entrance. Never one to stand on ceremony, least of all when he was in a bad mood, Snape marched down one of the main aisles calling out imperiously,

"Madam Pince! Where is the Encyclopaedia of Muggle Potente Potions? It is not in its usual place, I need it now! If not sooner!"

Instead of Madam Pince's calm Scottish brogue lilting a reply, he heard a low, hesitant voice that he did not recognise offer,

"Er... Professor Snape, it's here, I was using it."

He stopped in his tracks and stood for a moment, clenching his fists as he realised to whom the unfamiliar voice must belong. He spun on his heels, walking slowly back along the corridor made by the high bookshelves with a deliberate tread that was designed to intimidate, and which had never been known to fail.

She turned slowly as he approached her, and he saw that she had the book open on the desk at which she had been working. He had evidently walked right past her. Meeting her direct gaze once more, closer now, he wondered fleetingly how on earth he had not noticed her. She smelled of jasmine and honey, and his nostrils flared in subconscious appreciation. He decided the scathing approach would be the most effective.

"And who might _you_ be, to be looking at such an arcane text? You _are_ aware of what it contains, aren't you?"

"I am using it to cross-reference entries in these Muggle books, and it isn't entirely accurate, Muggles have developed –"

She sounded almost apologetic, he thought. Oh, this was going to be too easy.

"Pah! A waste of time, and it's a poor excuse for keeping me from my work! Give it to me, woman, I have matters of great importance to attend to." 

He reached for the volume, but she shifted position slightly so that she blocked his path and, to his surprise, drew herself up to her full height and jutted out her chin in a subtle gesture of defiance. If he were to stoop a little, he noticed, her head would fit just underneath his chin when they embraced. Hurriedly, he put the ridiculous and inappropriate notion out of his mind.

"Certainly, Professor, I should have finished _amending it_ by lunchtime," she bristled. "I'll bring it to your dungeon."

His eyes widened in surprise at the alacrity of her retort, but he recovered himself quickly, and with a snarl in his voice and a glower on his face, he replied, 

"Be sure that you do", before turning on his heel and striding off.

He was most disconcerted by their encounter, and still he knew very little about her. He did not even know her name, and she still had his book. She obviously seemed to think she had more right than he to scribble all over it. It simply was not good enough, he thought, cursing under his breath as he swept into the wide, airy corridor that led to the stone phoenix guarding the staircase to Dumbledore's office.

"Peanut brittle!" he growled, and the staircase began to grind into life. He stepped on and began to spiral upwards, a tight knot of tension in his chest making him clench his teeth almost as hard as his fists.

"Enter, Severus!" was the mildly voiced answer to his peremptory knock at the door to the Headmaster's office. The door swung open, and Snape marched in, ready to launch into a long list of reasons why it was imperative that he should at all times be kept up to date with any staffing changes Dumbledore saw fit to introduce. His words died in his throat, however, as he noticed Lupin sitting in an armchair by the fireside.

"Morning again, Severus! Feeling better?" he asked cheerfully.

"Oh, it's you," was his surly reply, Lupin's presence deflating him as surely as the sudden drop in wind would slow a ship previously billowing in full sail.

"Ah, Severus, I take it you are here to enquire after Miss Redemte?" the Headmaster twinkled knowingly.

Scowling first at Dumbledore and then at an ingenuously smiling Lupin, and then back again, Snape began peevishly, 

"_If_ by 'Miss Redemte' you mean the new – _woman_ – at breakfast this morning, then yes, I _had_ been wondering why no-one had seen fit to inform me!"

"Pretty, isn't she, Snape?" remarked Lupin, trying to hide a smile. Snape glared at him icily.

"I hadn't noticed, Lupin!"

"Perhaps if you had remained in the Infirmary under Poppy's care until such time as she pronounced you fit to be discharged, I would have had the opportunity to bring you up to date on the matter?" replied Dumbledore pointedly. Snape frowned, tacitly conceding the point by going to sit in the chair opposite Lupin's, as the Headmaster's wave of the hand signified he should.

"More coffee, Severus? Or have you had enough of a stimulant for one morning?"

"Now look here, Lupin –" Snape barked, but was stopped in his tracks by Dumbledore's hurried interjection,

"Miss Redemte, Severus, Miss _Ella_ Redemte, has come here on a short term contract, until Christmas, in order to carry out some long overdue cataloguing and amendment of the section of the library concerned with flora and fauna from the Muggle world, mostly, you will be interested to note, as it relates to their version of potions making. Pharmaceuticals, I believe, is the Muggle term for it… Anyway, she has lived a long time in the Muggle world and is an archivist by trade. I seem to recall that she was a fairly competent student when she was here, and Potions was a particular favourite, if memory serves me…"

"Wonderful!" Snape interrupted sarcastically, unable to simmer in silence any longer. "_Just_ what I need. First she steals my books to scrawl all over, next I suppose she'll be pestering me for advice! As if I don't have _enough_ to do!"

The Headmaster raised his eyebrows thoughtfully and turned away, tickling a sleepy Fawkes under the chin. For the next few moments the air was filled with the multi-tonal purr of contented phoenix, and Lupin sat back in his chair, closing his eyes and smiling as the mellifluous sounds vibrated through the room. Even Snape was mollified by the music, and he felt his irritation ebb by degrees until it had dissipated almost completely. Damnable bird. He was sure Dumbledore had done that deliberately. He rubbed the bridge of his nose absently with a long middle finger, and said tiredly and without rancour,

"So, Albus, where does she come from? What do you know about her?"

"Always so suspicious, Severus!" Lupin commented, yawning.

"Someone has to be on their guard, Lupin! These are dangerous times we live in, in case you hadn't noticed!" Snape snapped defensively.

"Her family was killed sixteen years ago," Dumbledore began. "She has lived a somewhat nomadic life since then, a little hard to pin down…she has lived all over the world."

"So, an ideal candidate for recruitment by the wrong side, wouldn't you say?" countered Snape coolly, beginning to feel vindicated and more than a little smug.

"Not at all, Severus, not at all, since it was a particularly gruesome Death Eater attack that killed her family, mere months before Voldemort fell!"

Snape froze, and then shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He had been a Death Eater himself at that time.

"Does she know about me?" he asked abruptly, uncomfortably aware that the answer mattered to him and not knowing why.

"I have not spelled it out to her, but yes, I believe she knows you have been working covertly for me, and that particular circumstances of your past have made you invaluable in that regard."

Snape snorted bitterly and replied,

"And she can still look me in the eye and not flinch!"

He remembered the clarity of her gaze, and the way the sunlight through the library windows picked out the gold in her mossy green eyes. He shook his head, trying to shift the image from his mind, scowling at Remus Lupin again for want of something to look at, anything to take his mind off the feeling of unease, and upset routine, that she awoke in him.

For pity's sake, he had only set eyes on here scant hours before, and already he was agitated out of all proportion. He could not explain why, but he sensed that somehow she posed a serious threat to his comfortable, orderly routine.

He resolved there and then that he would not allow her to get away with it.

He spent the rest of the morning reorganising his store cupboard into some semblance of order. Stocks of certain vital ingredients had been allowed to run unforgivably low, so he would need to go into the Forbidden Forest for supplies. When the culpable Black sauntered in without so much as a by-your-leave to collect the unmarked parchments which he had left littering the classroom desk, Snape took great delight in telling him in no uncertain terms what he thought of his organisational skills, or lack thereof, and had stopped just a shade short of dismissing him summarily from his dungeons. Disappointingly, Black had shown an unusual degree of tact and had beaten a hasty retreat with only minimal help from Snape. Infuriated by the ease with which Black had been dispatched, Snape spent the next hour tidying his storeroom to work off his frustration before taking a quick luncheon in his rooms and making a mental list of plants and fungi to search for in the Forbidden Forest.

He had always prided himself both on his stealth and on his excellent hearing. These combined talents had enabled him, over the years, to deduct innumerable house point on myriad occasions from countless errant students, who would pleasingly find themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time. He put his skills to good use now as he heard a woman's footsteps approach along the Potions corridor and begin to cross the stone flagged floor of his classroom. He sprang from his chair, sidling catlike to the door from his office, and stood there for a second before throwing open the door and walking briskly through into the classroom. He had startled her, he realised with satisfaction. That had been his intention.

"At last!" he said, picking up the volume and deliberately turning back to his office without even acknowledging her presence.

"You're welcome!" he heard her mutter. She had obviously been angered by his rudeness. Suppressing a shark-like smile of triumph, he halted, turned around and looked at her as coldly as he could.

"Ah. Yes, _thank you_ for keeping me from my work all morning. I _do_ so appreciate your kind efforts. Now please leave." His eyes glittered black, and he was gratified to see anger and spirit in her flashing green eyes. He had needled her, that much was obvious, and he could barely hide his smirk at the knowledge that he had now unsettled her just as she had, albeit unwittingly, unsettled him. He swept back into his office and closed its concealed door behind him, shutting her out before she had a chance to find her tongue. Then he allowed himself a small, sharp, satisfied,

"Hmph!" as he tossed the unwanted book carelessly on to his desk and carried on through to his bedroom where he kicked off his shoes, loosened his collar and climbed on to his large antique four-poster bed. 

He lay with his hands behind his head and stared up at the green velvet canopy with its satin trim, making a mental list of the items he would need to collect from the Forbidden Forest that afternoon. Green natterjacks, moss, jadeworts, peapod stalks, greenleaf ivies, goldencaps, grass-snake skins, green _and_ gold toadstool…Damn the woman, must she invade his thoughts even when he was trying to compose a list of supplies? Damn her and her green eyes with the golden flecks that danced so entrancingly in the sunlight…

He must have dozed off, for when he awoke over an hour had passed. Cursing his physical weakness – each visit to Voldemort left him needing a longer period of recuperation than the one before – he sat up, admittedly refreshed and clearheaded, and refastened the top buttons of his frock coat. Selecting a cloak from his cavernous oak wardrobe, one of medium weight with many concealed pockets wherein all manner of plant cuttings, vials for sap, and small specimens of fungi could be stored, he fastened it, slipped on his stoutest shiny black boots, and set off for the Forbidden Forest.

As he reached the main doors on to the front lawn he heard the sound of animated chatter, and a woman's bubbling, carefree laughter. Setting his face into a fierce scowl he aimed it first at Black and then Lupin before turning it on the newcomer. The smile did not die on her face, as he had expected, but instead its brilliance was turned on him, full force, for an endless moment. He felt stunned, as if all the air had been knocked from his lungs, but he congratulated himself inwardly on never breaking his step, sweeping past the three of them and striding off down the lawn, his cloak billowing out behind him. He did not let himself look back, and tried to shrug off the impression that at least one pair of eyes was boring into the back of his head.

By the time he had reached the forest he was sweltering in the heat, and as soon as he was out of sight of the school and certain he would not be disturbed, he pulled off his cloak and unbuttoned and removed his frock coat. Underneath, he wore a flowing white linen shirt with almost as many buttons as on his jacket, and these he unfastened with a quickly muttered charm which served also to roll his sleeves past his elbows.  More comfortable now, he picked up the discarded items of clothing and continued on into the forest. He soon became engrossed in the search for ingredients, his keen eye and years of experience coupled with his intimate knowledge of this part of the Forest making his task easy, almost mind numbingly so, after a while. And his mind was most definitely beginning to stray from the task in hand, he thought morosely as he absently pulled some greenleaf ivy from a gnarled old tree and beheaded a variety of toadstools. 

What was she doing laughing and joking with those two lecherous buffoons? Surely someone of her supposed intelligence and experience would prefer more erudite company, like his? He banished the ridiculous notion from his head immediately. Where on earth had it come from? He had eschewed all company years ago, had made a point of avoiding it wherever possible. He had no interest in anything, or anyone, that would upset his carefully ordered routine. And as far as any physical response he might have had to her…she was a new face, and one that he would get used to eventually. She disturbed his equilibrium, that was all.

That was all.          

****

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

I hope that you're enjoying the story so far. This chapter is a little lighter than its predecessor, and the story will stay a touch more humorous for the next few chapters. As you will see, he isn't quite ready to fall in love!

Please let me know what you think, by leaving a review! And don't forget to check out Hermione's Diary too!


	3. Agitation

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

****

I would like to thank my faithful reviewer Carole for her input into this chapter. I posted it originally a few days ago and she commented that she had always wondered what Snape murmured to Ella while she was in the throes of her venom-induced fever. I realised that I had missed a golden opportunity to reveal a little more about Snape's past, and my mind would not let it rest until it was written. So here is Chapter 3 again, the new and, I hope, improved version. 

I would also like to credit my dear friend Superwitch, for a line of dialogue that appears in her story 'The Coiled Splendour'. It's this one; "I don't think there was _ever_ a time where I didn't want you. All the time." I love that line, Supe! ;-)

****

**Chapter 3**

**Agitation**

Severus dressed slowly, and unwillingly. He craved the intimacy of their bed. It had been his, and his alone, for so many long, empty years, and now he could imagine nowhere less lonely and more comforting. Ella had changed Persephone into an all-in-one fuchsia contraption with a daisy on the front, and he frowned slightly. It was very gaudy. Still, he mused, he acceded to her better judgement in such matters. Black and dark green were not suitable colours for a small child, as she would laughingly remind him. Laying her daughter down on the white fur rug so that she could kick her tiny legs and feel the softness of the fur between her fingers and toes, Ella turned her attention back to her husband and slipped her arms around his neck.

"I never knew I upset you so much!" she smiled, lacing her fingers in his hair and brushing her lips against his.

"Well, you did. Right from the start, and not in a good way, either! I found your sudden presence very disturbing. And I _do_ think you had _some_ idea!"

"Maybe. I just couldn't stop thinking about you, from the moment I first saw you. I don't think there was _ever_ a time where I didn't want you. All the time."

She pulled him to her more closely then, and he responded in kind, feeling her succumb to his strength, hearing the soft moan deep in her throat as their kiss deepened. His hand raked through the mass of curls at the back of her head and stroked the soft skin at the nape of her neck until he felt her shiver and mirror his actions with her own sure fingers. Ah, he could do this all day, and he toyed with the idea of taking a few steps backwards and pulling her onto the bed where they could enjoy a more intimate embrace, but it was too late, she began to pull free and they separated. Reluctantly, biting back a peevish complaint, he went to sit by the empty fireplace while Ella summoned a house elf to bring breakfast before coming to sit beside him, curling her legs underneath her. Reaching out to push back a stray lock of hair from his face in a habitual gesture he loved so well, she murmured,

"Tell me more?"

                         *********************************************************

Snape's encounters with Ella Redemte that day had left him irritable and strangely disconcerted, so when he received an owl from Lucius Malfoy late that evening he offered the Fates his bitter congratulations for the efficiency with which they had managed systematically to ruin his entire day. 

Malfoy wanted to meet him on the morrow concerning 'the little matter of some artefacts for sale…' The Ministry of Magic had long had Malfoy Manor under close scrutiny, and Lucius Malfoy was concerned that certain items might associate him too closely with unlawful Death Eater activities. He insisted that Snape accompany him to Borgin and Burkes', 'to present a united front to Mr Borgin and, if necessary, apply a degree of…pressure.' Snape knew what that meant. Mr Borgin was an unsavoury character but he had not quite, as yet, pledged any sort of allegiance to the Dark Lord. Snape suspected that his primary loyalty was to his own neck, and he could sympathise with that. 

However, to decline Malfoy's invitation would be tantamount to an expression of disloyalty, and he could not afford to jeopardise his carefully maintained cover. So it was that the following day, after a spartan lunch which was the bare minimum necessary to appease his grumbling stomach without making him physically sick, he set off reluctantly for Diagon Alley.

Malfoy was his usual malevolent self and the oleaginous Mr Borgin took everything off him, for 'a fair price', with trembling hands. Snape stood in the shadows as far as possible as driving rain battered the loose panes of the small shop windows, a silent, sombre darkness on whom to lay any blame should Mr Borgin prove too difficult, and as he stood, and waited, he thought of bright sunlight, and the way it played in golden green eyes.

He declined the offer of an evening 'on the town' with Malfoy, knowing too well the other man's predilection for violent encounters of a sexual nature. With a disdainful sneer, the blond man bade him a good evening and disappeared along a rain-soaked Knockturn Alley, the metallic tap-tap-tapping of the silver serpent-headed cane echoing back to Snape long after its owner had been swallowed up by the mist-making rain. 

Snape hastened to the Leaky Cauldron, heading directly to the fireplace and emerging moments later, sodden and covered in grey ash to boot, in the warm, cosy snug of the Three Broomsticks. He needed a stiff drink, a malt whisky to wash away the nasty taste that he always found in his mouth following each encounter with the odious Malfoy. Amazing that he could ever have counted him as a friend.

The Three Broomsticks was busy, but the crowds parted to let him through, and a stool at the bar was vacated with gratifying alacrity. Having a fearsome reputation did have its advantages. Rosmerta fetched him a single malt without even being asked, and he raised it to his lips eagerly, his nostrils flaring on the heady scent of the whisky. His drink finished, he scanned the room. All the usual suspects were there, he noted wryly, including – oh, joy! – Lupin and Black. And unless he was very much mistaken, there was a third member of their party. A third glass was on the table, tall, filled with ice and a clear liquid of some sort, half empty. He froze, and did not even acknowledge the promptness with which Rosmerta refilled his glass. He was too aware of being under intense scrutiny once more. Long moments passed, and the hairs at the nape of his neck began to prickle as he sensed her approach. 

His back straightened as his scrutiniser drew near and he turned his head to fix her with a hard stare, saying derisively,

"I have been able to form two opinions about you so far, Miss Redemte."

She tossed her hair defiantly, but he heard a telling note of uncertainty in her voice as she replied,

"Only two?" 

He swung round on his stool so that he could more easily intimidate her, and his lip curled disdainfully as he continued,

"One, you make a habit of staring at people when you believe yourself to be unobserved and two, I see you're not fussy about the type of company you keep."

Her eyes widened fractionally and a light flush spread over her cheeks, but if he had hoped to send her scuttling off back to her two bodyguards, then he had severely underestimated her. Straight away she countered,

"No, not at all, and that's why I'd like to ask _you_ to join us, Professor Snape!"

Touché, he thought. He noticed that she was wearing faded blue denim jeans. Very tight ones. And her black sweater was far too revealing. He could see the curve of her breasts in his peripheral vision. He did not dare look down. The effect of his well-practised glare would be nullified if he did, and besides, she would surely notice and believe - _erroneously_ - that he was susceptible to her charms, and that his weakness would therefore give her the upper hand. He sneered and turned back to his drink, sending a clear signal that their conversation was over, before his eyes could force themselves southwards and betray him.

He watched her walk around the corner of the bar and back to her seat beside Black, in a corner booth. Her jeans really were very, very tight, he mused, allowing himself the luxury of looking her up and down now that he could do so unobserved. Her figure was pleasing, he observed analytically, trying to ignore the tingle in the pit of his stomach which, in days long gone, had always been the precursor of pleasant physical arousal. She was – voluptuous. Ample. Curvy in all the places a woman should be. Perfect. 

He emptied his glass with a jerky, impatient haste. She was a new member of staff, that was all. He was irritated at her directness, that was all. He had no other interest in her. He glared and tensed as Sirius Black leaned in to her to punctuate whatever facile joke he was trying to tell. She laughed, and he noticed the way she tossed her hair, the blush of her cheeks, the glow that spread down her neck to her – no, he would not think about them. _That_, he corrected himself, gesticulating impatiently for another drink. He wouldn't think about her at all. 

After his third whisky he gave up trying not to stare at her. All three of them were far too annoying simply to be ignored. He sat at the bar, hunched over his drink like a huge black raven, glowering at the small party in the corner booth. He was not surprised in the least to find her still stealing glances at him. He began to count the number of times she did so, and estimate their frequency. It was easily accomplished, since he found he could not take his eyes off her.

Eventually she got up and walked slowly back around the bar. He wondered whether it was really necessary for her hips to swing quite so provocatively. He stared at a point in the middle distance and she deliberately came to stand beside him, propping her elbows up on the bar and leaning over them, so that her forearms framed her breasts. Damn the woman. He had not been cursed with the discomfort of an unrelievable erection for longer than he cared to remember, and he did not see why he had to be forced into having one now.

"The invitation still stands, Professor." Her low voice sent a shiver down his spine and he began to feel uncomfortably hot. "You do seem to find our conversation of interest."

"You're mistaken. I would prefer to drink alone."

"Then why are you staring? Are you trying to make me feel uncomfortable?"

Enough was enough. He was a reasonable man, but she had provoked him quite enough. He drained his fourth whisky and looked her up and down, slowly and deliberately, and he saw her body shiver almost imperceptibly. He knew he was fuelling the fire of his own erection rather than trying to damp it down, but he did not care. His cloak would, he hoped, conceal any hot, throbbing embarrassment. He did not want her to have the last word, and he spoke volumes with just one burning, lingering look. 

Outside in the relative peace and quiet of the street, he took several gulps of fresh, clean-smelling air and silently thanked the rain that soaked his face and plastered his hair to his scalp. Since a cold shower would have to wait until later, this, for now, was the next best thing.

He had had some difficulty in sleeping that night, despite the whisky. He had deliberately chosen not to use any sort of rain repelling charm, preferring to let the cool drizzle wash over him and douse his misplaced ardour, so by the time he had arrived back at the castle he was even more thoroughly drenched than he had been in Diagon Alley. He shivered at the memory of his visit there that afternoon. If ever there was a reason for him to eschew that infernal woman's company, it was Lucius Malfoy. If he were ever to suspect that Snape could still feel…But no. He felt nothing for Ella Redemte. His body had reacted to the provocation of her clothes, and her walk, that was all. And her eyes. 

                                                                              ***

He decided to breakfast in his room the following morning, and told himself that far from being afraid to face her sober after the way he suspected he had looked at her while slightly inebriated, it would enable him to begin sooner the mammoth task that was returning his classroom to some sense of order before the weekend was over. The task was accomplished quickly and after a hearty lunch of beef stew accompanied by freshly baked bread he was ready to return to the Forbidden Forest, for fresh supplies of fungi.

If anything, the day was even hotter than the one before, so he ventured deeper into the forest where the trees shaded all beneath them so comprehensively that it was impossible to determine, with any certainty, whereabouts the sun lay in the sky. Having shrugged off his coat earlier, Snape had since donned it once more, and rebuttoned it. He had found nearly everything he had set out to, and began slowly to pick his way through the mosses and broken tree branches, roots and tangled undergrowth. At length, late afternoon sunlight began to dapple through the sussurating canopy of leaves high above his head, the deciduous trees on the outskirts of this part of the forest being less densely packed than the firs further in.

As an afterthought, he decided to harvest a few more Michaelmas toadstools on his way out of the forest, and he stooped to remove their purplish heads. It was at that moment he heard a loud snap, and a startled cry. He straightened, annoyed at the intrusion into his solitude, not to mention the flagrant breach of school rules.

"What're you doing in here?" he barked as he crossed swiftly to the place from which the sound had come. "Don't you know the Forbidden Forest is out of bounds to stu-….oh, it's you!" 

It was a woman, lying sprawled half on her side, one arm outstretched above her head where she had tried unsuccessfully to break her fall. Her foot was half trapped under a tree root and her face was white with pain. He leaned over her and cloudy green eyes stared into his as she moaned in distress, and then rolled back in her head as she swooned away.

It would have to be _her_, wouldn't it, he thought bitterly as he scanned her body looking for any other signs of injury before he attempted to move her. He noticed the small red bite mark on her forearm at the same time as he saw the small brown snake slither off into the undergrowth. His eyes widened in alarm, and he cursed loudly, stooping to slip his arms underneath her. She was quite insensible and her head lolled back as he scooped her up, pulling her to him firmly. 

Lurching with some difficulty across the uneven forest floor he toyed with the idea of using the Mobilicorpus charm, or of conjuring a stretcher. Either would certainly make his life much easier, in many ways, he thought grimly as his treacherous body began to react to her closeness. However, the snake which had bitten her was highly poisonous and her fever would worsen rapidly. Holding her close to him, he would be better attuned to any changes in her physical symptoms. He was not carrying a heavy weight on an uncomfortably sticky summer afternoon out of any sense of romantic idealism. He was no heroic stereotype, not he, however much she might enjoy thinking herself a damsel in distress.

One of his arms was under her shoulders, and his long fingers curled round her side until their tips touched the outer swell of one of her full breasts. He moved them back slightly, uncomfortably aware of the way the thin silky fabric of her dress slipped through his fingers. That was not as bad as what was happening to his right hand, however. It was holding her legs, but the dress she wore, a decorous mid-calf length under normal circumstances, he had noted, had ridden up as he had lifted her, and now the palm of his hand was cupping her bare thigh. 

His breathing became ragged and he realised that he was undergoing a somewhat extreme, and entirely inappropriate, reaction to her nearness. Her hip was pressed to his waist and with each step he took it rubbed against him. By the time he was half way back to the school his erection was so hard that her right buttock rubbed across its head with an excruciatingly regular, suggestive rhythm and it was all that he could do not to whimper with need. He thanked the Fates that she was unconscious and therefore unaware of the effect she was having on him, but then to his horror her hand snaked around his neck and she opened her eyes. 

"What's happening?" she asked weakly.

"I'm in the process of saving your life, you silly girl!" he snapped. "You've been bitten by a snake and it needs immediate attention. I have a remedy in my office. You're very fortunate that I was nearby!"

"Thank you," she murmured, and as he looked into her eyes she began to sweat. To his alarm, he noticed droplets of perspiration begin to form on her brow, and her teeth began to chatter as the fever worsened. His hand under her thigh became slick with sweat, although he suspected that some of it was his own. He tried to look straight ahead and hefted her up in his arms slightly so that she could not feel his hardness as it stood proud against his lower abdomen. Gods, it was a long time since he'd been so aroused. Unfortunately his action meant that instead of letting her head loll back, she buried it instead in his neck where he could feel her sweat intermingle with his own. Trying to withhold a low growl that threatened to rumble from deep in his throat, he turned his attention to a small group of sixth year students who had been in the process of spilling out of the great oak doors on to the lawn, but who had become transfixed by the surreal vision of their fearsome Potions master striding across the lawn with a woman insensible in his arms, and who were blocking his way on the steps.

"Get out of the way, you imbeciles!" he snarled, cutting a swathe through them as he hastened up the steps. "And send for Pomfrey!"

For a few delirious moments he exulted in the painful pleasure of his incredible erection. Any less aroused and it would have been obvious, but since it was pressed firmly against his belly, the casual observer would never know that it was there. He suppressed the urge to giggle insanely, and breathed in the cool air of the entrance hall, heading determinedly to the dungeons.

Ella's body was trembling uncontrollably with the effects of the poison, and mercifully his ardour cooled as his concern for her wellbeing intensified. By the time they had reached his quarters she was unconscious again, and his arms and back were under so much strain that he was sure she must have doubled in weight between the forest and his rooms. He lay her down on his bed and hurried through to his private store, where he took two vials, one large, one small, and a large goblet. Mixing the two potions he re-entered the bedroom at a run and sat beside her, lifting up her limp body and cradling her in his arms as he put the goblet to her lips. A few drops were all that was needed to revive her, and then she was able to raise a shaking hand to the goblet and cover his fingers with hers, and drain its contents.

Closing his eyes with relief, he laid her back on the pillows and carefully removed his arm from under her. Her eyes were closed again, but he was not concerned. He knew that the immediate danger had passed. He fetched a cloth dampened with cold water from the bathroom and bathed her face and neck, then brushed her hair back from her face. All that he could do now was wait. Madam Pomfrey would be able to tend to her ankle. His arms trembling uncontrollably and his legs unsteady, he sank into his old leather armchair and wished he was a younger, stronger man.

Poppy Pomfrey arrived in a flurry of starched skirts and disapproval.

"Really, Severus, what _have_ you been doing?" she muttered, heading for the woman lying prone on his bed.

"Well, obviously not what _you_ think!" he snarled defensively, turning to glare at her in disbelief.

"And when did your bedroom become Hogwarts' Infirmary?" 

"Oh, let me see – that would have been as soon as I realised that I had the antidote here and could _save_ _her life_!"

"Hmph. So, what happened to her?"

"Snake bite. The deadly kind. And she's twisted her ankle, I think. I haven't treated that yet."

"Oh, so there is _something_ I'm still useful for, then?" 

Snape noticed Ella stir and went to her side quickly, leaning over her and peering at her face. He reached out a cool hand and pressed it to her forehead.

"You see, Poppy, she's much better. Her fever has broken and her eyes seem clear now."

 "Well, I would still have preferred it if you'd brought her directly to me, Severus. She'd be far better off in the hospital wing under _my _care."

"There was no_ time_, Poppy!" he retorted, exasperated beyond belief at the woman's refusal to accept that he had acted in Ella's best interests. "You can see that, surely?" 

"But Severus, this is your _bedroom_…"

"What, do you expect that I will take advantage of her fragile state and _seduce_ her?"

The instant the words were out of his mouth he regretted that he had let that insidious notion into his head. 

"People will talk!" Madam Pomfrey countered. 

"As if I care!" he replied.

"Oh, very well, Severus. I'll leave her in your capable hands. _Do_ let me know if I can be of any assistance!"

Madam Pomfrey had been waving her wand over Ella's foot while murmuring some powerful healing charms at the foot of the bed, but this had not prevented her from speaking her mind, and she continued to infuriate Snape by saying, 

"And you look dreadful!"

"Well, I did carry her all the way from the Forbidden Forest!"

"Whatever for? You're in no fit state to go doing that sort of thing, Severus. Not so soon after –"

"Yes, yes, I know. It seemed like a good idea at the time. I had to be sure she was – I had to keep an eye on her physiological responses."

"Did you indeed. Well, dose yourself with Pepper-Up Potion and get some rest, otherwise you'll be no use to anybody."

Snape glowered at her, but she was unperturbed.

"You know I'm right, dear. And we can have her moved to the Infirmary –"

"No!" he said quickly. "She can stay here."

Madam Pomfrey pursed her lips but did not comment. After a few moments she said,

"Well, I shall go to Ella's rooms and find her a nightgown. Since she seems to be staying here she might as well be comfortable!"

Snape watched her go with an irritated frown, before getting up with a sigh and fetching a vial of Pepper-Up Potion from his store room. He dozed off in his chair after that, for a few moments, and when he awoke on Madam Pomfrey's return, the potion had taken effect and he felt invigorated once more and with the use of his arms and legs fully restored. He tried not to look too closely at the flimsy scrap of satin she held in her hands.

 "This is all I could find in her room," she said dubiously, holding it up. "Well leave the room, Severus! I need to change her into it!"

"This is _my room_!" he snarled.

"Yes, and it's _you_ that brought her here! Now be a gentleman and at least turn round!"

He scowled at her and strode to the other side of the room with his arms folded, taking up a position in front of a large antique armoire. An ornate gilt-framed mirror topped the dresser, and he soon realised that the angle at which he was standing afforded him a clear view of his bed. He looked away for a moment, not wanting to move in case Madam Pomfrey noticed and began to scold him once more, forcing him to say something to her that she might make him live to regret. He had sufficient self control to not take advantage of his situation, and besides, he had decided the day he first met her that he had no interest in Ella. 

However, curiosity soon got the better of him and his eyes widened and his breathing quickened as he watched Madam Pomfrey slip his unconscious guest out of her clothes. He had to stifle a gasp as she removed Ella's brassiere and revealed her creamy breasts with their dark pink nipples and lighter areolae. His fingers had touched those breasts, carrying her. He wanted to touch them now, and he imagined his mouth closing over first one and then the other, his tongue laving them, suckling them, pebbling them.

His erection had sprung back. In those few short seconds, he had gone from being calm, and in full control of the situation, to being no more than a slave to his own physiological responses. It simply would not do. When she had finished he turned around and, adjusting his robes, told Madam Pomfrey to leave.

"I will be here, in case she needs another dose of the antivenin," he said, clearing his throat. With a "Hmph!" Madam Pomfrey left.

He stood at the foot of his bed and stared at Ella for a very long time after Madam Pomfrey had gone. She had kicked down the sheet so that it barely covered her waist, and instead tangled round her legs, outlining them as she lay spread-eagled. Now and then she would writhe and arch her back as the fever abated, and her nipples strained against the soft blue satin of her admittedly very fetching nightgown. Clenching his fists until his short nails dug painfully into his palms, he battled with his baser instincts, talking himself out of the almost irresistible urge to stretch out over her and consume her with his mouth, an inch at a time.

He was throbbing painfully now and he could not ignore his physical reaction any longer. Stripping off his clothes impatiently, he threw his frock coat on to a chair and disappeared into his bathroom. He removed the rest of his clothing and stepped into his large black marble shower.

 "Aqua frigus vigoratus!" he muttered, then cried out "Ah!" as powerful jets of cold water assaulted him on three sides at once. He turned round and round under the pulsing jets, his eyes closed, and lifted his arms to run his hands through his hair. He worked methodically, concentrating on the act of cleansing himself, and this combined with the pounding of the water jets meant that by the time he had reached his more intimate areas his member was quiescent once more.

"Aqua cessate!" he said tiredly and stepped out of the shower, shivering. He began to towel himself dry with a large green bath sheet, rubbing his long dark hair vigorously before wrapping the towel around his waist. Back in his bedroom, he paused to check that Ella slept still, and then dressed as quickly as he could. Only after his frock coat was buttoned tightly from his neck to his knees did he force himself to look at her impassively, controlling and subduing any bodily reactions. Once he had satisfied himself that he was once more in full control of his faculties, he headed to his office for a few vials of restorative tonic to speed along her recovery. While part of him had no wish to relinquish her to Madam Pomfrey's care, even though there was no clinical reason why not, still the more rational part of him preferred that her sojourn in his sanctuary be as brief as possible.

He leaned over her once more and noticed that she was waking. As her eyes fluttered open, sensing his nearness, he thought, he said,

"You are much improved."

"Thank you," she replied softly, trying to sit up but never letting her eyes leave his. Almost hypnotised by her gaze and her scent, he allowed his hands to grasp her waist in order to lift her and make her more comfortable. The sensation of her smooth skin under his hands as they slipped on the satin was powerful, and when he heard her moan he was not sure at first whether or not the sound had come from his own lips, rather than hers. He withdrew saying,

"Are you in pain?"

Her eyelids had drooped and she breathed her reply as if she thought he ought to know the answer,

"_No_…"

He could not trust himself to look into her eyes any longer. His self control was nowhere near as stoic as he had come to expect in recent years. Instead, he crossed to a small table under the window on which stood a pewter goblet and a large jug of iced water. He poured some out, and added the contents of one of the small vials of tonic.

"What is that?" she asked softly. Her voice made him grip the goblet tightly as he steeled himself to meet her gaze once more and resist the temptation to plunge into her thoughts and lose himself in the swirling mass of her memories and emotions.

"It's a restorative tonic I have made. Drink it," he said shortly, uncomfortable under her scrutiny. She made him feel exposed, as if his soul had been laid bare. Despite the bitter taste of the potion, she did not flinch, nor did she question its necessity. He left her alone to rest then, thankfully escaping to the safety of his office, and as he left the room he was sure he heard her murmur his name as she sank into sleep,

"Severus…" 

It sliced into his consciousness like a scalpel through flesh, prickling the hairs on the back of his neck. He must not let her get to him, he thought. He could not let her. He_ would_ not. 

His hands were trembling so much that he could not even trust himself to prepare the simplest potion, so he sat at his desk and cast around for something to do, anything at all that would take his mind off her. His gaze fell on the book she had been annotating in the library. Rolling his eyes in exasperation and angry with himself, he pushed himself back from his desk, before striding back into his bedroom. If he could not get her out of his mind there seemed little point in not giving her his utmost care and attention instead, on a purely professional level. Perhaps if he spent some time in the same room as her he would be able to analyse the ridiculous attraction he had for her, and overcome it as he knew he must.

He watched over her for all of that night, and half the following morning, and still he had no answers. In fact, by the time the luncheon bell sounded he had only succeeded in ensuring that his attraction took an even firmer foothold than before. 

The tonic he had given to Ella had worn off halfway through the night, and he dared not give her another, fearful that its known side effects, one of which was to slow metabolism, would inhibit her body's ability to cleanse itself of the venom. It had served its purpose and her fever was less severe than it might otherwise have been, but she was still delirious and he feared she was hallucinating. He had tended to her through the worst of the fever, holding her and cooling her brow with compresses as she thrashed and moaned, and he had found himself murmuring and whispering to her, his low voice seeming to soothe her although he doubted very much that she understood his words. Perhaps, he mused, that was why he had found it so easy to tell her about Caius. 

"Hmm. I hope you appreciate this," he had said stiffly as he stilled her head with his hand to wipe her brow. "I happen to be somewhat of an expert…" he paused to wring out the cloth into a bowl set on the bedside cabinet, "…in snake bites and their treatment." Her thrashing had stilled as he spoke, and she sighed and moaned. He looked at her suspiciously, lifting an eyebrow, and continued, "I doubt you would have survived thus far if anybody else had found you."

Memories of carrying her up the lawn to the school flooded back into his mind and his eyes were drawn down the bed, where her curves were outlined clearly under the thin sheet that barely covered her. He grimaced, and pulled the sheet up until it covered her breasts. His hand hovered over her chest, and he felt his forehead begin to sweat. She moaned and arched her back and he snatched back his hand as if scalded just before she pressed herself into it. Gods, he could tell that this would be a long, difficult night. 

"If I were less well-versed in the minutiae of the effects of this particular venom, Miss Redemte, I would strongly suspect you of trying deliberately to unnerve me. Fortunately for us both," he continued wryly, "I have sufficient sense and self-control to ignore your unwittingly wanton behaviour. Now lie still, woman, while I get you a drink…"

Returning with a pitcher of iced water, Snape sat beside Ella and lifted her so that his arm was behind her and she rested against his right shoulder. She was shivering and he could see gooseflesh on her arms and on her chest. Her nipples were hard peaks straining the fabric of her nightgown and he gulped a mouthful of the water himself before putting it to her lips. He gave her only a sip, but it seemed to revive her for she began to gulp greedily and he was obliged to restrict her intake a little, lest it make her sick. In her haste, water had dribbled down the side of her mouth and he watched as if hypnotised as the rivulet ran down her chest and carved out its path through the deep valley of her breasts. A small damp patch began to bleed through the satin of her nightgown as the water was absorbed by it, and he had to force himself to take a breath, and to replace the goblet on the nightstand. As he shifted position, intending to help her lie down once more, she groaned an incoherent complaint and shook her head wildly, so he sighed and swung both of his legs on to his bed, conjuring some more pillows and settling back with some trepidation. Now what was he supposed to do? 

She turned over on to her side restlessly, trying in her half-sleep, half-fever to curl herself into him. He needed to calm her, and more to the point, he needed to calm himself. The intimate embrace that she was forcing on him was entirely unwelcome and yet his pounding heart and constricting trousers told a very different story. Talking to her would help them both, however idiotic he would feel. He had the consolation of knowing that she would probably remember none of it, and whatever she did retain could be dismissed as the hallucinatory effects of the venom.

"As I was saying earlier," he began, "You're very lucky. And I suppose, in a way, that you have my idiot brother to thank, although the Fates know, nothing _else_ good came from the afternoon that he was bitten." 

Ella sighed and moaned a little, and then fell silent, her breathing becoming more regular, her hand scrabbling for purchase on his chest. He took it in his and stilled it, and continued softly,

"He was ten, I was eighteen. I had just left Hogwarts and great things were expected of me." He gave a hollow laugh. "He used to wander in the woods behind our house. He had no sense of danger, none at all. Why should he, when he had an elder brother to act as nursemaid and protector? He always did exactly as he pleased with no thought for the consequences. Anyway, I was chasing him one day. Father had insisted I leave my studies to retrieve him from the woods because the Malfoys were coming to dinner, and he was expected to attend, as was I. He wouldn't come, of course, so I gave chase. I was angry, since I knew I would have to shoulder the blame if we were late."

He sighed and conjured another extra pillow so that he could rest his head more comfortably against the headboard, and then took the cloth and wiped Ella's brow carefully.

"He went too far. Before he knew it he had stumbled across the nest of vipers I knew to be in that part of the woods, and one of them was curling around his ankle. I told him not to move but he didn't listen, and before I could take out my wand it was too late. I had gained my Apparition license that summer, so I was able to return to my room and collect some preparations which I knew would counteract the venom…since I had milked the vipers only days before, in order to study their poison and produce antidotes. My success was limited. Caius had become wary of my testing my potions on him, and was unwilling to trust me. I had to hex him before he would allow me to pour the vials down his throat."

He fell silent then, remembering. "I cured him, of course," he continued after a while, even though Ella's breathing was slow and steady and he knew she had fallen into a deep, healing sleep. "Not that my efforts were appreciated…"

He began to slide off the bed, and carefully removed his arm from the supine woman beside him. She sighed and shifted in her sleep, but she did not wake, and once he had made her comfortable he took a last look at her, brushing her hair back from her face. He succumbed to the irresistible urge to trail his fingers along her cheek, and was disturbed to see the ghost of a smile on her face, just for a moment. He withdrew to the armchair by the fire and stared at her, forcing himself to remember the rest of the story he had told her, for what better way than that to cool his ardour?

His parents had held him completely responsible, of course. Never mind that it had been they who had forced him to give chase to Caius, and drive him deeper into the woods; never mind that the snakes would have been there anyway, irrespective of Snape's knowledge of them; never mind that his assiduous attention to his studies and his particular brilliance had enabled him to save Caius' life. No, the blame was his, and the disapprobation heaped upon him by his mother, with her red-rimmed eyes full of reproach, and his father, with the ice in his voice that came straight from the frigid waste that was his heart, was damning. And it had surely damned him.

The Malfoys had arrived for dinner, and Lucius had finally persuaded his younger friend to accompany him to a meeting of a group he had joined, led by a charismatic man known as Tom Riddle. Snape had been unwilling at first, despite Malfoy's promises of as much knowledge and as many women as he could ever want, but that evening he had let himself be swayed. He had attended his first ever Death Eater meeting.

Snape closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers. He was tired, but he knew he would be unable to sleep now, and the room was suffusing with a soft pink glow which meant that dawn had stolen in while his mind had been elsewhere. Ella was still sleeping, and he stood wearily and went into his office for some Pepper-up potion. He took a dose himself, and then returned to his bedroom to administer some to Ella. Her fever had broken and she was very pale, barely waking when he put the vial to her lips. He sat at the foot of the bed for a long time, leaning against the ornately carved bedpost and watching her sleep.

He decided to take luncheon in the Great Hall, thinking that perhaps a change of scene might clear his head and enable him to put his interest in her into some sort of perspective. However, all that he could think about was that she was lying in his bed half undressed and that his place was beside her. When luncheon was over he scraped back his chair angrily, much to the confusion of Remus Lupin, who had not even dared disturb his colleague when he was obviously so deep in thought about something, and made his way back down into the bowels of the castle, his guts twisting as he strove not to break into a run.

When he regained his bedroom he was disarmed completely. She had dressed herself, and sat in his chair – _his chair_ – for all the world as if this were her bedroom, as much as it was his. She was evidently much better, and would no longer need his care. Conflicting emotions wrestled within him, anger at her presumption vying with a sense of loss, and neither gaining precedence. Masking his feelings, he said impassively,

"Ah, you are up. And you can walk, evidently."  

"Er…yes, with some difficulty" she smiled.

"You will want to go back to your own rooms now. Let me help you to your feet. I'll take you back." He could not resist the urge to add bitterly, "We wouldn't want you to have another accident on the way, now, would we?" 

When she stood, it was with some difficulty because, too late, he had realised that he was standing very close to her, looming over her, in fact. He caught his breath as her hand rested on his chest as she gained her balance. She appeared still to be in some pain, but he was determined now that she should return to her rooms. Her breasts brushed against the thick fabric of his frock coat, and he was wildly grateful that so many layers separated their skin for he felt his self-control begin to dissipate more rapidly each and every time he saw her. He looked deep into her eyes, and tentatively allowed himself to read her. The desire he saw there terrified and excited him beyond all reason, and reflexively he took a step back, before she made him do something he would most assuredly regret, and he broke all bodily contact between them save for that of his left hand under her bare arm. Her skin was warm and soft and he almost recoiled from the scent of her, the womanly, jasmine- fragranced irresistible femininity of her that threatened to drive him to his knees. 

He had to support her through to his office, where Madam Pomfrey had left a crutch in readiness for this eventuality. Still, however, she appeared to need his arm under hers, and so by the time they had reached her door ten minutes later, his head was spinning with the effort of keeping his physiological responses in check. Once he had deposited her at the end of the short corridor to her room he muttered,

"I have a lot to do. You've kept me from my work." 

He strode away before she could answer, away from her beauty and her scent and his desire for her, and her incomprehensible desire for him. He resolved to avoid her as far as possible from that moment on.


	4. Vexation

**Chapter 4**

**Vexation**

****

Persephone had fallen asleep while Severus and Ella breakfasted, and he stooped beside her now, crouching low to slip both of his hands underneath her tiny frame. Slowly, delicately so as not to disturb her slumber, he picked her up and cradled her against his chest. A Levitating charm would have been the ideal way to transfer Persephone to her cot, but he knew better than to even attempt it while his wife was present. She had threatened, once, to withdraw certain…_privileges_ if he did, and while he was fairly certain she would not really have the inclination to make good her threat, still he knew that she could be very determined, and he preferred not to risk putting it to the test. Catching Ella smiling at him knowingly, he merely raised a quizzical eyebrow and proceeded to carry his daughter through to the nursery.

"A fuchsia babygrow, indeed!" he murmured to her as he crossed the large, airy living room, his thumb gently rubbing the shock of soft black hair resting on his hand. "With a daisy motif, no less! She'll be planting you in a pot in one of Sprout's greenhouses next, you'd better watch yourself…"

Smiling thinly, surprised by his own sudden whimsy, he stood at the side of the fantastically carved cot for a few moments, just gazing at her. Sometimes it was so difficult to believe she was his, and always it was so wonderful to realise that he had been twice blessed. He bent to lay her down in her cot, watched her stir in her sleep, and then settle, then left the room as stealthily as he could so that he could return to the other love of his life. He wanted to tell her just exactly what her closeness to him at the Quidditch match had done to frustrate him, and then he wanted to show her how he had wished she could have relieved it.

                **********************************************************

As the weeks went by he schooled his mind to subdue any errant thoughts and flights of fancy regarding Ella Redemte. Not for nothing was he the most skilled Occlumens in the school, Dumbledore notwithstanding, of course. It had been Dumbledore who had taught him, equipping him with all of the skills he needed to disarm and mislead Lord Voldemort. Skills that had probably saved his life each time he encountered the Dark Lord. He could not afford to let her wheedle her way into his consciousness, and he had all the means at his disposal to stop her. The uncharacteristic weakness he had displayed during the night he had lain with her through her fever had worried him immensely. He was satisfied that she would remember none of it, of course, but he berated himself for disclosing such intimate details of his past to a complete stranger. Stranger she was, after all, and stranger she would remain, however right it had felt for him to bare his soul.

He avoided her where at all possible, his adeptness at sinking into the shadows a very useful skill and one which his wariness of her kept sharply honed at all times. His forays into the library were infrequent, since he had all that he required on permanent loan. Mealtimes were problematic, he freely admitted to himself, and he stole far more glances at her bright, vibrant form than he cared to count. Staff meetings, too, were even more of an ordeal than usual, but he tolerated them with his habitual sullen grace and tried to stand, arms folded, out of her line of sight, and she out of his. Gazing into her eyes was too great a temptation for him to resist, and he did not want to read her. He was afraid to learn more about her.

The first Quidditch match of the season was to be between Gryffindor and Slytherin. Never a man to ignore the merits of gamesmanship, he had excused his Slytherins most of their homework for the two weeks preceding the match by the simple expedient of ensuring they received marks in class adequate enough to absolve them from the 'requirement' to write two scrolls on procedures and processes in potions making. In contrast, their Gryffindor counterparts, particularly those on the Quidditch team, were marked down a little and told that their substandard work needed immediate attention. 

He was greatly relieved that Crabbe and Goyle, the two Slytherin beaters, had not taken Potions beyond the Ordinary Wizarding Level. He doubted that even a teacher such as he would have been able to help those two dunderheads along by giving them pass marks in class. They had barely scraped one OWL each in Potions, and the skill required to study such a subtle science and exact art at NEWT level was quite beyond them. 

To be so blatantly partisan was perfectly understandable, and he would never admit that his methods were perhaps a little unfair. He felt completely justified in his approach. This was Quidditch, after all, and the standing of his House was at stake. If McGonagall failed to do the same for her own students out of some misguided sense of fairness, then that was her own concern.

The whole school turned out for Quidditch matches, so he knew, of course, that_ she_ would be there although he did not know which of the staff stands she would choose. Striding purposefully down the lawn to the Quidditch pitch he made for his preferred stand, and he schooled his features into what he hoped was an aggressive scowl as he approached Black and Lupin where they stood chattering inanely to Potter's friends Weasley and Granger. And Ella Redemte. Damn the woman, it was too late for him to change direction now and choose another stand. And besides, part of him thrilled at the sight of her. He glared at her menacingly, allowing his gaze to linger on her and convey the message that he was not to be trifled with. 

He took the first steps up into the stand two at a time, until he knew he had passed out of her sight, and then he paused to catch his breath before continuing to the top, berating himself for the pounding of his heart against his ribs which was not solely the result of his ill-advised physical exertion. He took his seat on a bench in the middle of the stand, and tried to relax as the places slowly began to fill all around him. If only Black could keep control of his verbal diarrhoea perhaps the party could make their way up the stairs and put him out of the misery that was not knowing where she would sit. 

Black, of course, he thought bitterly, could no more rein in his long-windedness than he, Snape, could tolerate it. The trio of Black, Lupin and Ella were, naturally enough, the last to arrive, and they took the last three places in the stand, on the very bench that he had chosen. Lupin went first, asking Snape to stand up and inflicting on him a very irritating grin. Then Black brushed past with his usual arrogant swagger and a broad smile. That left Miss Redemte to fill the empty place beside him. He stiffened as she passed, and her signature scent of jasmine assailed his flaring nostrils even as the wind blew her long dark hair across his face. Space was at a premium in the stands, and she had only a little room to pass him, and so physical contact was inevitable. Her shoulder blades brushed against his chest, and her buttocks could not help but come into contact with his hips. He gritted his teeth and swore at her under his breath as he sat down again.

"Are you looking forward to the match, Professor Snape?" she asked.

He had avoided conversation with her for weeks, and had not even heard her low, musical voice for the last few days, and now, hearing her gently amused question, he found himself at a loss as to how best to respond. He was too polite a man simply to ignore her, and unfortunately her innocuous question did not warrant a scathing response; his only course of action seemed to be one of common courtesy. At last, when he had mentally exhausted various options, he replied,

"It promises to be a tolerably interesting match."

"As long as your team wins?" she teased lightly.

He did not know what to say to that, either. To demur would be insufferably coy, while to acknowledge the accuracy of her remark would go against the spirit of 'fair play' that seemed to be the ethos of Albus Dumbledore's headmastership. He arched his brow, and pretended to be very interested in something – anything – away in the middle distance. Black was having yet another attack of verbosity, drivelling on about his precious godson Potter, and Snape tried to block the sound by emptying his mind. He was well schooled in this technique, but today the usual calm waters of self control were replaced by a raging torrent of sensory input that threatened to engulf him completely.

He could still smell her. Jasmine was there, yes, but there was more…there was also citrus, musk, vanilla…and woman. And coconut, every time the wind picked up her hair and blew it across his upper arm. She was sitting so close to him, their thighs almost touched…almost, but not quite. He wanted to growl in frustration and the longer they sat, the more uncomfortable he became with her proximity. She was too close for him to control his body's reactions to her, and too far away for him to be able to succumb to them. To her. And he did not want to succumb to her, ever. And she was staring fixedly downwards, he noticed, her attention far from the Quidditch match playing out in front of them. She was staring at his hands, and his thighs. Gods, he hoped that was all she was staring at, he thought as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat and tried to think of a way to distract her. What on earth was she staring like that for, anyway? Surely she wasn't doing just as he was, and struggling with a ridiculous attraction that could go nowhere?

There was a loud cheer from the Slytherin students as the Quaffle soared past the Gryffindor keeper and through the central hoop.

"Ten points to Slytherin!" shouted the scorekeeper unenthusiastically.

"Are you enjoying the match so far?" Snape said softly, turning his head slightly to look down at Ella, who had shown no sign of having heard Lee Jordan's commentary. Her lips were parted, and as he watched he saw the tip of her tongue poke slightly from her mouth to moisten her lower lip. He drew in his breath, closing his eyes for a second as he tried not to wonder what she was thinking. He repeated, a little more forcefully,

"Well? Is the…_match_ to your liking, Miss Redemte?"

This evoked the desired reaction, he was gratified to note, as she started guiltily and looked up into his eyes.

"Er…yes, it's fascinating," she replied faintly.

"Evidently."

He barely needed to try to read her. The woman was an open book to his practised eye, and the raw lust he saw there both aroused him and terrified him. Her fascination was with him, not the match, and he exulted in it even as it shocked him. This ill-advised attraction could not be allowed to continue, he knew, but the momentary connection was broken as, once again, Slytherin scored. He turned back to the match, smirking grimly to himself. He had made her feel as uncomfortable as he did himself, and what was more, he now knew exactly why she unsettled him so. She wanted him as badly as he wanted her, although he hated to admit to the strength of his feelings. 'Know thine enemy'. Both Voldemort and Dumbledore subscribed to that little homily. He had just become far better acquainted with his, and he knew what he had to do to dissuade her attentions.

When the match ended, a sudden triumph for Harry Perfect Potter, he rose to his feet quickly and began to move along the row. Once he was sure she was right behind him, he swept round and loomed over her, asking,

"How is your ankle, Miss Redemte?"

"Oh! Much better, thanks. Although it does still ache a lot…do you have anything that would help, by any chance?"

He looked down at her thoughtfully. 

"Yes, I do, as it happens." His pause was just long enough for a flicker of hope to appear in her clear, entrancing eyes.  His own narrowed and he continued dismissively, "But nothing you won't be able to get from Madam Pomfrey, at far greater convenience to yourself. I suggest you go to the Infirmary."

With feelings more mixed than he cared to acknowledge, he noted her shoulders slump slightly in barely masked disappointment, and he turned on his heel and was gone.

By the time Ella had made her way to the bottom of the stand with her two companions, he had ensured that he had put half the length of the lawns between them. And at dinner that night, after he had stared across at her long and hard, drinking her in, he closed the book on his misguided and dangerous attraction to Ella Redemte.

He had, of course, reckoned without Albus Dumbledore and his propensity for meddling.

Snape thrust his plate of cauldron cakes back onto the occasional table before the fire, and it thanked him nervously.

"I won't allow it!" he said, through gritted teeth. The Headmaster had just informed him that his carefully laid plans to avoid Ella Redemte until Christmas, when the school would be rid of her, had been all in vain.

"My dear boy, I was not aware that I was giving you any choice in the matter! Miss Redemte is an intelligent young woman who is currently being sadly underutilised. While she is here I am sure that we – the school as a whole – can benefit greatly from her recent experience in the Muggle community."

"Yes, but – "

" – And I am putting the needs of the school first, Severus. And the needs of the war effort. Who knows, the two of you might even hit upon a new weapon to fight Voldemort!"

"Oh yes, I can see it now," Snape interjected bitterly. "Ah, Miss Redemte, I was your parent's poisoner, would you care to work with me on a new and improved version?"

Dumbledore sighed.

"You do not know for certain that it was your doing, Severus."

"Don't I? Don't _you_?"

The Headmaster turned away but Snape caught the sad frown that Dumbledore was trying to hide.

"I thought so. Albus, this isn't fair. I've read her, and she's attracted to me! Stupid, misguided woman…"

Dumbledore turned back slowly.

"You read her? Severus, did you tell her what you were doing?"

"Of course not, I'm not _stupid_!" Snape spluttered.

"Then what you did was unethical, boy, and not worthy of you or of the training _I_ gave you."

He ignored the younger man's glare, and eventually Snape rubbed the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger in the gesture of resignation that so many of Dumbledore's edicts caused him to make.

"You're right. I shouldn't have. But you don't know how hard it is not to, when she stares at me so…"

"And when you stare back?" the Headmaster asked gently. Snape shifted uncomfortably under his knowing twinkle.

"You know better than anyone else here why it could never be allowed to go any further, Albus. I can't – she couldn't care for someone like me – it would be futile, on both sides."

"Severus…"

"No, Albus, no more homilies and words of encouragement. I lack the temperament for - _ love,_" he spat out the word as if it was distasteful to him, and Dumbledore's brows knitted together as he watched his friend struggle to find the words to describe his fears, for fears they were. "And besides, Albus, imagine the danger to her if Voldemort were to discover my attachment." - At this, the Headmaster's eyebrows raised – "_If_ any such attachment were to exist," Snape added hurriedly, two spots of pink suffusing his otherwise pallid cheeks.

"Indeed, indeed," he replied thoughtfully, crossing over to Fawkes and tickling him under the chin.

"And _please_ don't encourage that bird to sing again, Albus, it's_ so_ obviously an attempt to manipulate me into agreeing with you!"

Dumbledore allowed himself a wry smile, and sat down at his desk. Their meeting, Snape surmised, was over. He stood reluctantly and brushed the crumbs from his frock coat.

"And, ah, how is the young lady's ankle?"

The sudden change of subject made Snape frown as he had been about to offer one last complaint, futile though it was to object.

"Aching. I sent her to the Infirmary for Poppy to administer a poultice or some such," he said dismissively.

"Very well. I shall inform Miss Redemte of our plans, and work can begin tonight."

"_Our_ plans?"

The Headmaster smiled mildly, and Snape turned on his heel, muttering imprecations under his breath all the way back to the dungeons.

Dumbledore sat back in his chair and tented his fingers, looking up into the high domed ceiling of his office.

"It'll all end in tears, you know!" sneered the disdainful voice of Phineas Nigellus from his portrait's vantage point part way up the wall to Dumbledore's left.

"No, I believe it will all _begin_ in tears. And that is quite, quite different," mused the Headmaster thoughtfully.

Several unfortunate students had happened to be loitering in various corridors on Snape's route back to the dungeons and he was able to vent some of his spleen by deducting a sizeable number of house points. His success did little for his overall mood, however, and he paced his room up and down, running his hand through his hair absently, going over and over his meeting with Dumbledore and his last encounter with Ella. It had been earlier that day, and they had been leaving the staff room at the same time. He had held open the door for her to pass through before him, and she had graced him with a soft smile and a gentle blush. Combined with her heady scent it had almost been enough to drive him to his knees. He had been forced to take the long way back to his dungeon, since she had set off along the corridor he would ordinarily have taken. And now, on nothing more than an old man's whim, all his precautions and good intentions might as well count for naught.

He spent the afternoon in his rooms stewing, simmering, steaming, and by the time the dinner bell sounded he had brought himself to a slow boil. It was all Ella Redemte's doing, he was convinced of it now. The scheming, duplicitous witch must have gone to Dumbledore fluttering her eyelashes, appealing to the old man's annoyingly avuncular nature, pretending to be something she was not. And for what reason? A misplaced, unwelcome, misguided and incomprehensible attraction. A niggling voice inside his head kept on whispering to him, 'She likes you, she likes you,' but he subdued it angrily. Hell, the woman probably lusted after every red-blooded male in the school – and probably the entire world, for that matter! She obviously was not picky, if he of all people had caught her eye. She had certainly been around enough – in every sense of that phrase, he shouldn't wonder. Men were probably just playthings to her, he thought bitterly as he nursed a large goblet of firewhisky. Diversions, to be discarded without a second thought when another, better opportunity presented itself. Well, she would get short shrift from him. He was far too accustomed to losing both on the swings and on the roundabouts of life to entertain the notion that this time his life could be different.

He had no appetite for dinner and he magicked his whisky away with an impatient flourish. It would not do for his senses to be dulled this evening. He needed to make his position perfectly clear to the siren that was Ella Redemte. He just hoped that his brain could get the same message across to his errant body, too, since up to now it had done its level best to ignore his better judgement.

There was a knock at his office door, and he knew it was her. Scowling, he opened the door. She was flushed and her eyes were bright with nervous anticipation, although her manner tried to disguise it.

"I'm sorry, have I come at a bad time?" she asked with a false casualness. His eyes narrowed.

"You've come at the appointed time, I believe. But since I don't consider this forced collaboration to be of any use, either to myself or to the school, then yes, it _is_ a bad time!"

"I'm sorry you feel that way, I was under the misapprehension that this was _your _idea."

He tried not to inhale deeply of her fragrance as she brushed past him into the room, and masked his discomfiture in his usual way, by snapping,

 "Pah! And why would you think that, Miss Redemte? Potions making is a subtle science and an exact art, and I am more than capable of it. Do you imagine I need to seek out the society of unqualified girls in order to help me with my work?"

"I _imagine_ no such thing when I think of _you_, Severus. Oh, and do call me Ella." 

She had used his name. She was all but a stranger to him, and yet his name tripped from her lips as if it had been meant for her mouth to shape, for her vocal chords to give life, for her tongue to caress with sibilant sensuality. He could not move. He stared at her back dumbly as she laid down her books on his desk and seated herself there, and he tried unsuccessfully to relax the knot of tension that had formed at the top of his spine as he clenched his fists, and which had, most unfortunately, found its evil twin in the area of his groin. The tension there was agonising in its sudden intensity and he drew up his own chair, sitting down quickly at the desk beside her, but at a relatively safe distance, before she was able to notice that anything was amiss.

Two hours sped by, during which time they discussed various potions ingredients and their properties and applications in both the wizarding and Muggle worlds, and at the end of them he had begun to realise that there was, perhaps, slightly more to Ella Redemte than a man-eating flibbertigibbet with an unnatural interest in him. As his physical stimulation receded at last, it was replaced by a mental one of the most pleasurable kind – a meeting of minds, of roughly equal curiosity and enthusiasm, and fairly well-matched intellects. Granted, she might not have his years of experience or his innate talents, but she challenged him constantly and made him reassess and adjust his long held beliefs. When their meeting was over he felt drained and exhilarated, and as he watched her stand up and close her books, piling them neatly in the middle of his desk along with her scrolls of notes, he realised that he did not want her to go.

"Will you take a glass of wine before you leave?" he asked, awkwardly formal and dreading her answer, whatever it was.

"I'd like that, thanks."

She had agreed almost too readily, he noticed, and he wished he had not asked. He crossed over to the sideboard in a dark corner of his office, and she followed. There was a tray there, with a decanter of Hogwarts' finest claret and two golden goblets, and he poured them each a drink. He was about to continue a discussion they had been engrossed in half an hour before, until the sudden discovery of a hitherto little-used Muggle weed had distracted them, but as he passed her the goblet their fingers touched, and he felt the atmosphere in the room change, becoming heavy with expectation. Their eyes met and his heart skipped, and then his treacherous body reminded him that he could smell her, he was gazing at her, he was touching her, and he wanted more. And then she had turned away and raised the goblet to her lips, and he heard himself say quietly, as if from a long way away,

"It's late. You should… go. Now."

Alone again, he sat by the fire and brooded into its flames for a long while.

Looking back, after she had gone, after his deliberate cruelty a few weeks later had driven her away and she had left a gaping hole in his life that no amount of firewhisky could fill, he would look back on those evenings they spent working side by side with an ache in his heart so profound that it threatened to be his undoing.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

Thanks for all your lovely comments so far. I am really enjoying writing from Snape's point of view.

Please review!

And in case you haven't already, why not join my Yahoo group? My work is archived there and I even give 'sneak previews' of upcoming chapters! Find the link on my author page.


	5. Attraction

**Chapter 5**

**Attraction**

****

Ella was sitting on the edge of their bed when he returned, and she held out her arms to him. He stepped up to her and pushed her shoulders so that she fell backwards onto the counterpane, still unmade from the night before. She giggled as he leaned over her and climbed on to the bed until he rested on his hands and knees, covering her, with his long black locks shadowing the smirk on his face. She reached up to him and cupped his face in her hands, pulling it down to meet hers. She rubbed her nose against his and he captured her top lip between his, sucking gently before opening his mouth to hers with a sigh as her own tongue flicked over his teeth. He took her in his arms then, and for a short while all that could be heard was the rustling of their clothing as they rolled across their bed. Minutes later Ella had pinned her husband down and straddled him, saying mockingly,

"If I'd known how unwilling you were to have anything to do with me, I would never have thrown myself at you the way I did!"

"You didn't throw yourself at me!" he retorted, flipping them both over so that he was in the dominant position once more.

"Oh, yes I did, Severus!"

"Hmm. Well, I don't feel like arguing the point, this time. So it's just as well you did, isn't it? If it had been left to me…we'd still be…sending one another…lovelorn looks…across the dinner table…"

Severus was busy leaving a trail of wet kisses along Ella's jaw line and down to her collarbone while his hand explored the satiny skin of her thigh, and she shivered and tangled her fingers in his hair.

"More…"

"Later."

"No, more of what you just did!"

"Oh. Mmm…"

Some time later, after a timeous Silencing spell had ensured that their vocal enthusiasm for one another would not disturb their baby and as a consequence curtail their mutual enjoyment, Ella lay prostrate across her husband's panting, sweat-sheened body, clinging to him in the bliss of her afterglow. He was incredible, she thought to herself. Amazing. He was every superlative she could think of, and even more than that, and he was bound to her forever. She buried her face in his chest and breathed deeply of his intoxicating maleness, kissing the saltiness from his skin and almost purring with satisfaction as he ran the hand that was not pressing her to him up and down her spine. 

She wondered when he would tell her more about the events that had caused the nightmares that plagued his life. As much as his reminiscences about their early relationship amused and enlightened her, still she felt that he was using them to steel himself for revelations he feared would shock and disgust her. She squeezed him more tightly. Nothing he could tell her would ever temper the ferocity of the love she had for him.

                  **********************************************************

She had returned to his rooms the following evening, of course, full of ideas and an infectious enthusiasm. He, too, had been keen to continue their discussions although his eagerness was tempered with the unease that had been his constant companion since they had first met. Resigned to having no option but to work with her, he had decided to make the best of a bad situation and try at least to fulfil the Headmaster's remit. He was confident that he had sufficient control over his reactions to be able to contain them and even render them inert, and he was sure that repeated exposure to the acidity that was Severus Snape would, in turn, neutralise her nebulous attraction to him. 

He decided that he would be able to tolerate seeing her for a few hours every evening, for after all, he did have the remaining hours in the day available for him to shut her from his mind. Excepting mealtimes, of course, where she was as much a distraction as ever, and where, unfortunately, his stolen glances across the Great Hall had not gone unnoticed.

"She's looking very lovely today, eh Snape?" Black grinned one morning, three days after Snape's first evening with Ella. Snape stiffened imperceptibly and tried to keep his usual bored tone as he answered his rival.

"To whom are you referring, Black?"

"Don't come over all coy, man! You know quite well who I mean!"

Snape ignored him and stabbed his sausage with a vicious jab of his fork. Black's eyes narrowed and he continued,

"Blue quite suits her, don't you think? Although I must say, I'd like to see her in _my_ house colours…"

"I'll thank you to keep your opinions to yourself, Black!"

"…Do you think she'd look good in silver and green? Hmm?"

"I don't think about it!"

"Are you sure? So what_ are_ you thinking, with all these looks you keep giving her? And why are you getting so worked up? Am I too close for comfort, Snape?"

"I do _not_ keep looking at Ella Redemte, and it is your increasingly juvenile behaviour that has begun to annoy me!"

"Well, if you're leaving the field clear for me, so much the better…" Black mocked, sniggering when he noticed Snape's knuckles whiten as he gripped his cutlery. Suddenly Snape dropped his fork and with a swift movement made for the folds of his cloak where his wand lay, before remembering himself and reining in his urge to hex Black into the middle of the following week. Black, however, noticed the reflexive gesture and chuckled softly as he tipped his head back and swallowed his morning tea in several easy gulps. Snape scraped back his chair with a clatter and stormed angrily from the Great Hall, not daring to cast his gaze across the room for a last glimpse of the subject of his discomposure. He just managed to hear Lupin's muttered,

"_Now_ what have you been saying, you bloody stirrer?" and then he was gone in a flurry of swirling robes and black storm clouds, which rained acidity on his hapless students all that day.

If Snape had thought that Remus Lupin would know better than to approach him with his own words of dubious wisdom regarding Ella Redemte, then he was, yet again, vastly let down. A few days later, after he had settled into an exceedingly pleasurable routine with the lady that was intellectually stimulating as well as providing him with a regular frisson of excitement which he had learned to enjoy, the werewolf paid him a late evening visit. Ella had left several minutes before, and Snape was staring into the dying embers of the fire, going over their evening's conversations and remembering the orange glow of the firelight as it danced in her hair. He was feeling pleasantly relaxed, and planned on retiring early to allow himself to think of her in the otherwise lonely comfort of his bed. His reverie was disturbed by a hesitant, almost apologetic tap on his door. He knew that alarums such as that came either from terrified first or second years, or Remus Lupin. Since student curfew was long since passed, he sighed heavily and called,

"What do you want, Lupin?"

The door opened and Lupin's head poked round it. The head wore an ingratiating smile which set Snape's teeth on edge.

"Well, come in then, if you feel you must!"

"Evening, Severus. Not disturbing anything, am I?"

"Would it make a difference if you were?"

"I, er, that is, _we_, er – "

"Spit it out, man!"

"May I sit down?"

Snape made an impatient gesture with his right hand, and Lupin took the seat opposite his, to the other side of the cooling fire. He was carrying an oddly shaped parcel wrapped in brown paper and fastened with twine, and he held it out to Snape as he said,

"Erm…we thought you might find this useful. It's a pensieve."

"Really? How novel. And why would I want another pensieve?" he said shortly, taking the parcel from Lupin's outstretched hands and opening it uninterestedly

"For your thoughts of Ella. It's been pretty obvious how you're starting to feel about her."

Snape's brows shot upwards and he leaned forward in his chair, almost dropping the pensieve at his feet as he spat,

"I feel nothing for her! How dare you come in here and accuse – "

"– I _dare_ because it's true, Snape!" For all his mild manner, Remus Lupin was not easily intimidated, and the werewolf in him was evident as he unconsciously mimicked Snape's posture, continuing in a growl so low it almost matched Snape's deep baritone. "I _dare _because for once in your miserable life you have the chance to grasp at something pure and something beautiful, and I _dare_ because it makes you vulnerable and if Voldemort ever realises it then you, the Order and the entire war effort could be at risk!"

Snape gaped at him, incredulous, then his shoulders slumped and he fell back into his chair.

"I already have two pensieves," he muttered sulkily, frowning at the shallow grey bowl on his knee.

"You're welcome, don't mention it!" Remus bit back. Snape glared up at him for a moment before resuming his examination of the pensieve. "Anyway, you don't," he continued. "Not like that one. Sirius and I – "

"Hah!"

"_Sirius_ and I enchanted it; it will safeguard your emotions as well as your memories. I know you're a very skilled Occlumens, but I don't recall that you've ever been in love before, and – "

"What would _you_ know?"                  

"– And this is a – a sort of insurance policy. For all our sakes."

"You doubt my ability to block the Dark Lord?"

"I would prefer to leave nothing to chance. And I get the impression that all this business with Ella might have...taken you by surprise."

Snape raised an eyebrow slightly and continued to read the inscriptions that curved around the rim of the bowl. Settling back into his chair Lupin remarked casually,

"Got anything decent to drink?"

"Thank you, yes," came the silky reply, and Snape's mouth curled upwards caustically as he continued, "You come bursting in here telling me not only that I am…_'in love'_…, but also that I am compromising the war effort, and then you seriously expect me to be so won over by your argument that I wish you to stay for a drink, and thereby have you inflict yourself on me for longer still? Of my own choice? Self awareness was never your strongest suit, was it, Lupin?"

Lupin's eyes narrowed and he looked at Snape speculatively.

"I haven't heard you deny it yet. Any of it."

"That is because I prefer not to grant your asinine opinions any undue weight by entering into an argument about their accuracy. If the giving of this – _gift_ – makes you and your sidekick sleep more easily in your kennels at night, then good for you. But it's neither necessary nor welcome."

"Well, we'll agree to differ," Lupin replied amenably, grabbing the arms of his chair and pushing himself up before stretching tiredly. He looked down at Snape for a moment, but the other man did not try to hand the pensieve back. With a dismissive

"Hmph!" and a hidden smile which broadened considerably once he was safely back in the corridor, Remus Lupin left Snape alone with his thoughts.

Snape threw the brown paper and the twine into the grate and muttered,

"Incendio," watching and brooding until they had burned away.

He did not love her, he knew that. He had neither the temperament nor the inclination for love. Voldemort had nurtured his ingrained feelings of alienation and distrust until they had become so much a part of his psyche that he could not remember ever having felt any other way. He admitted that he had become accustomed to her presence each evening; and it was true that her face and her figure pleased him more and more as they became more familiar, if that were possible, until he had begun to crave the sight of her; he thought of her during the day, making mental notes of questions he wanted to ask her that evening, about botany, or perhaps some Muggle peculiarity that he would like her to explain. He had certainly grown to appreciate her intelligence, and enjoy their collaborations and the long conversations afterwards. His body still reacted to her gaze, her scent, her nearness, her occasional accidental touch, her hand on his arm…and he ached to embrace her, caress her and make love to her. And then, of course, there was something inside him that exulted and sang whenever he saw her – but he was not in love. He was not meant for love. He neither deserved it nor wanted it.

He placed the pensieve on a shelf in his bedroom. He saw no harm in keeping it. It could come in useful, and its design was pleasing, evidently fashioned by a true craftsman. He wondered idly where Lupin and Black had obtained it, but knew that he would never give them the satisfaction of asking. And he told himself that he did not need to thank them for their gesture since they had obviously acted only out of misguided self-interest. As such, the subject was not mentioned again.

It was Ella herself who gave him the shove he needed in order to start using it. Their cosy evenings spent at his desk, and more particularly afterwards by the fire with a goblet each of the finest claret (her favourite, he soon learned), had quickly become the high point of his day. She would take her place opposite him by the roaring fire, and they would talk of all things and anything. It did not seem to matter upon what subject they touched. Whether it was literature, art, science, society, economics – he would be mesmerized by whatever she had to say, and he would often keep her in his company until both were nearly falling asleep as they spoke.

And then one evening, Ella did not take her seat in the chair opposite his, but instead sat on the luxuriant black fur rug before the fire. Nonplussed, nevertheless he had the perceptiveness to bite back the comment which sprang so readily into his mind, which was to ask her what was wrong with the armchair. He had to edge past her in order to sit down, and his robes brushed her cheek. The effect on his state of mind of that small contact was completely out of proportion but he suspected that its meaning was highly important, and he wondered what, if anything, he was supposed to do next; apart from the obvious, which he could not allow himself to do. 

Once he had taken his place and picked up his wine, he was even more at a loss for she said nothing at first, simply shifted closer to him and leaned slightly, resting her head on his knee as she gazed at the fire. He stiffened, and his hands gripped the arms of the chair, but after a moment he forced himself to relax and they sat in silence. 

He could scarcely believe that she was sitting at his feet, leaning into him, in such an intimate and yet non-threatening way. Usually such liberties with his personal space would result in his flinching away, stalking to some safe corner where he could be left alone, his self made fortress his sanctuary, his safe haven. And now, with Ella at his feet, the last thing he wanted to do was recoil. He hardly dared move, so afraid was he of breaking the spell. 

Eventually he plucked up the courage to reach out and stroke her hair, tentatively, unsure of how to proceed and whether or not it was what she wanted. He freely admitted that she was a mystery to him. To his surprise, and utmost relief, she simply sighed, and leaned further in to him by way of encouragement. Gently at first, and then more firmly, he let his fingers burrow through the mass of curls until they were caressing her scalp, stroking and massaging and exploring. Her hair ran through his fingers and he swallowed, his mouth dry. 

He had been a Death Eater. He had witnessed depravities the like of which she could never imagine and, he hoped, would never know herself. He had, in all likelihood, produced the terrible poison that had robbed her of her family. He knew that had she been fully aware of his past deeds, she would never have allowed him near her, but even knowing what little she did, her behaviour was unfathomable. His eyes bored into the back of her head, and eventually she turned to gaze at him, flushed, her lips slightly parted, desire etched on her face. Desire for him. He had never seen such a look before. As she turned he stayed his hand, and his fingertips grazed the curve of her cheek, feeling her heat. He stared into her eyes, fighting the urge to plunge into the clear, cool, soothing green depths, fathomless, like the ocean on a sun-filled day. Time seemed to slow to a halt, and he did not know how long it was before his own voice came to him from far away, the rational part of him betraying his instincts in its contradiction, saying softly,

"It's late, and we are both tired. You should go."

Still he did not move his hand, and she arched her back a little, inclining her head in order that her cheek nestled into the curve of his fingers. He stroked across it with his thumb as one in a trance, all the while staring perplexed into her eyes, before withdrawing his hand at last and feeling the warm breath of her reluctant sigh.

 At the door she turned to face him, reaching up to caress his cheek as he had done hers. He closed his eyes when her fingertips, bolder than his, brushed his lips, and he heard her whisper, 

"Goodnight, Severus." 

For a wild moment he thought she would kiss him, that he would kiss her, slide his arms around her and pull her to him, enfold her and adore her, ravish and seduce her and obey his body's insistent pleas, but he did not dare. His rational mind was telling him to retreat and take stock, and to ignore his foolhardy and inexperienced heart. The time was not right, and he had to ask himself whether it ever would be, for one so undeserving as he.

Once she had closed his door behind her, he had gasped for breath and lurched into his bedroom, finding and grasping Lupin's pensieve with both hands and setting it down before him before taking his wand with a trembling hand and beginning the incantation that would remove gossamer threads of thoughts and sensations from his wildly reeling mind. That done, he returned to his office and the unfinished goblet of wine, and sat down heavily in his chair in order to compose his thoughts, but, try as he might, he could still feel the brush of her thumb across his lip. 

He sat so long in his chair that he became stiff-necked and his head felt thick. The ashes were cold in the grate and the last of the candles sputtered out as he rubbed his eyes groggily. Darkness filled the room now and the only illumination that remained was the moonlight slanting in through the small windows of his gloomy office. He stood slowly, his aching joints complaining almost as much as the creaking leather of his favourite armchair, and he left his office for the comfort of his bedroom, unfastening and shrugging off his frock coat as he went.

He could not sleep. Damn it all, not even the most lily-livered excuse for a man would be able to sleep after what he had just experienced. The woman was a siren, an enchantress, a seductress, an angel. It had been a complete waste of his time even to try to sleep. He had done nothing to warrant her unprecedented interest in him, indeed he had done everything within his power to discourage it, but  still she had persisted and he, like the milksop he was rapidly becoming, had been beguiled by her completely. She filled his every sense and he had begun to rejoice in it. They had reached a new level in their relationship tonight and he felt like one who had climbed to dizzying heights on a broom and was about to take a dive and lose himself in the headiness of a pure adrenaline rush. On a hair trigger, the slightest, smallest sign and all self control would be lost. His situation was completely untenable. He sprang from his bed and dressed hurriedly, pulling on his boots and dragging his hands through his hair as he strode from the room. He needed to walk, and he needed to think.

Pacing along Hogwarts' endless corridors had always been a favourite pastime. Apart from the obvious joy of coming across curfew-breaking students attempting covert assignations in empty classrooms or dark corners, there was another less tangible pleasure to be had from his nocturnal peregrinations. At night, the castle seemed sentient. He could almost fancy that its very bedrock spoke to him. Its stones breathed, its rooms whispered, its cloisters and quadrangles sang on windy, stormy nights of darkness, of mystery, of age and of unfailing strength, unchanging permanence. He drew great comfort from its constancy.

By the time he encountered the Bloody Baron the castle had soothed his nerves and he no longer felt the giddy need to rap on the doors of the entire faculty, and even the House dormitories, to inform every living being under Hogwarts' many roofs that he was madly in love with Ella Redemte and could they all please advise him how best to woo her. No, now he was calm, and the better able to analyze his psychological and physiological reactions of the last few weeks.

"Well met, good Professor! Well met! It is a particularly fine night, is it not?"

"Good evening, Baron," Snape replied, inclining his head slightly and slowing his pace a little as the spectre turned to glide alongside him.

"The Room of Requirement might be worth a look tonight, Professor," whispered the Baron conspiratorially from behind his translucent hand.

"Indeed?" asked Snape with interest. Along with Argus Filch, the Baron had long been an invaluable accomplice in his lonely crusade to drum some sense into the school's hormonally challenged and notoriously determined young charges.

"Yes…tonight it can be found on the third floor of the East wing. It is a rather amusingly decorated Spanish bordello, made for two…" the Baron leered. Snape rolled his eyes.

"Don't tell me. De Souza's missing his homeland, and Miss Marchand is trying to console him in her own inimitable way?"

"Your perspicacity is a joy, Professor."

"Thank you, Baron," he replied graciously. "Would you care to lead the way?"

"Delighted, delighted!"

There can be few sights at Hogwarts more terrifying than the sight of a coldly vicious Potions master outlined in a dimly lit doorway, black robes swirling around him in the wake of a madly circling, screaming phantom. Ariadne Marchand certainly thought so, clutching red satin sheets in a panicked attempt to cover her modesty as she sat up shrieking in dismay. Her companion stumbled to his feet, hampered by his falling trousers which he tried with fumbling hands to pull back up.

Once the echoes caused by the slam of the solid oak door against the protesting stone wall had died away, the Professor spoke.

"Mister de Souza. Miss Marchand. I _do_ hope that I have disturbed something? Thirty points will be taken from both Gryffindor and Ravenclaw for this transgression, do I make myself clear?"

"Yes sir," came their mumbling replies.

"I beg your pardon? Contrary to popular belief my aural acuity does _not_ rival that of a bat!"

They repeated their affirmations and Snape allowed himself a malicious smirk, knowing that the soft glow of the many candles around his feet was not sufficient to illuminate his face.

"The Baron, I am sure, will be only too delighted to escort you both back to your respective dormitories."

The two miscreants swallowed nervously and looked at one another while the Bloody Baron gave a bloodcurdling cackle and began to circle the room restlessly. Turning on his heel, Snape strode off along the corridor with renewed vigour and a spring in his step.

Some time later he realised that far from his confident footfalls leading him back to his dungeon realm, he had in fact ventured in to the Hospital Wing and reached the end of the corridors that led, respectively, to the Infirmary and to Ella's small suite. Stopping in his tracks, he sat down heavily on the third step of the wide staircase to his left, and rested his elbows on his knees and wondered how on earth he had got there. Running his hand through his hair and massaging the back of his neck in an absent fashion, he rephrased his rhetorical question. What had brought him to this? Bemused, he looked across to the entrance to Ella's corridor. What in Merlin's name did he think he was going to do, now he was here? Wake her from her slumber in the middle of the night and seduce her, perhaps, or declare his undying love for her? He was in the middle of scoffing at this last when he felt a sharp pang in his stomach, and a sickly, fluttering sensation. Was that _really_ what this was? _Love?_

He felt something brush against his leg. Startled, he flinched and looked down to see a large, ugly ginger cat. Crookshanks, Miss Granger's flea-ridden cur. In a low, menacing voice he muttered,

"If you don't bugger off back to Gryffindor Tower immediately, it will be a further twenty points from Gryffindor tonight!"

The cat did not even have the good grace to look sheepish, fixing him instead with wide unblinking orange eyes. Prodding it away from his pristine trousers with the side of his leg, Snape stood up and the two went their separate ways, at least one of them having much food for thought.

He was revisited by his nightmare that night. Sleep had claimed him at last and plunged him into a miasma of pain, cruel laughter, degradation and regret. He awoke shivering and sweating, his black eyes snapping open in panic as he tried to collect himself. He took in the details of his room little by little but then found Ella's face superimposed over all that he saw. Her face, her smile, her hair, her skin, her eyes. He took several deep, ragged breaths and managed to half fall out of his bed and stagger to the bathroom before he was violently sick.

Sitting cross legged on the floor of his cool black marble shower, soothed by the relentless pounding of the water jets, he realised that the nightmare had been the first he had had in over three weeks. Since he and Ella had begun their evening collaborations, in fact. He had no idea of what he should do next. He had to assume that he did, indeed, love her. He needed to know whether or not his feelings were reciprocated, for if they were, then he suspected that he would feel more joy and more despair than he had ever imagined. He was suddenly desperate to see her again and once he had dried himself with one of his huge green monogrammed bath sheets he dressed with especial care.

He took his seat in the Great Hall long before the breakfast bell sounded, such was his eagerness to see her again. He loved her, and he was absolutely terrified of her. His eyes were fixed on her empty chair, and only when the Hall began to fill with the hubbub of noisy students did he tear his gaze away, darting it to and from the doorways, even the one behind his chair which he knew she had never used. As breakfast commenced he scanned all four House tables several times, just in case she had awoken that morning and, for some inexplicable reason, decided to sit amongst the student rabble instead of in her rightful place, in his line of sight. 

It was no use. She was not there. She had not come to breakfast, and the only possible explanation for her absence had to be that she was embarrassed and had such profound regrets about what had happened between them the night before that the only way she could deal with them was to avoid him. His gut twisted and he pushed away his bowl. Crestfallen and chastened, he slunk back to the dungeons having not even broken his fast with a spoonful of porridge or a sip of coffee.

He vented his frustrations on his first class of the day, the third year Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws, reducing one particularly incompetent Hufflepuff to tears. At morning break he headed for the library, unable to keep his mind on his work. He had to find out whether what had happened the night before had hit her with the same force as it had him.

He came upon her in a dark, dusty, little-used aisle towards the back of the library. Her head was bent, and she was obviously deep in thought as she frowned down at one of the lower shelves. He hardly had the time to register her figure-skimming magenta robes and the way tendrils of her hair had escaped her loose chignon, falling in soft curls around her face, before she had noticed his approach and jumped backwards, startled. Several books were displaced as she backed into the shelves behind her, and a cloud of dust puffed around her shoulders. Her eyes were burning into his and the sudden tension in the air was almost palpable, a physical presence coiling around them. Her shoulders were covered in dust and all he would have to do was rest his hands on them and pull her to him. His fingertips were itching and he rubbed them against his thumbs and flexed them as they hung at his sides. 

"I didn't mean to startle you," he said, rearranging the books on the shelf behind her.

"I was miles away!" she said breathlessly with a small, nervous laugh.

"Evidently!" he smiled, unable now to resist the compulsion to reach out and brush the dust from her shoulders. "You missed breakfast today, and I…needed to ask you something"

"I overslept, it took me half the night to fall asleep." 

She looked at him levelly, and he knew with a thrilling certainty exactly what she was implying. He could hear the blood pounding in his ears as it surged joyfully southwards, and the corresponding constriction in his trousers alarmed but encouraged him.

"I had some difficulty relaxing, too. We…worked too hard."

"Maybe we need a break." 

Of course she needed a break. He had been wrong. He had been a fool to think that she had been enjoying his company as much as he had hers. His initial impression of her had evidently been correct. She was a dilettante, a butterfly, flitting from man to man and refusing to be entrapped.

"Ah. I see. Of course, I've taken up too much of your free time; the Headmaster wouldn't want you overworked." he said coldly as he turned to leave. "And I'm sure _Lupin_ misses your company!"

"No! Severus, I just meant that we should maybe have some fun, relax a little. It would do us both good. I could show you how!" she said hurriedly, reaching out hesitantly but stopping short of touching his arm, once he had stopped and turned back to her once more.

"Together?" he asked, wanting to be convinced of her sincerity.

"Yes, why not?"

"Why not, indeed?" he said thoughtfully, eyes downcast. "And what would we do? Together?" 

She said nothing, and simply stood before him waiting for him to raise his eyes to meet hers. He could not move. She rested her hands on his shoulders and leaned in to him, stretching up. He could smell jasmine, and woman, and his self control was fading fast. He hardly knew where he was in the world as his surroundings shrank and winked out of existence leaving only Ella, her moist, parted lips coming nearer, ever nearer, and her eyes reading his very soul, his deepest desires. He was dimly aware that he could no longer read her, and then her mouth brushed against his, light as the fluttering of a lacewing, and he moaned involuntarily, about to lose himself in her. 

Then, in a fraction of a second, everything changed. A faint prickling on his left forearm reminded him of who and what he was, and then it was Voldemort's face in front of him, Voldemort's laughter ringing in his ears, Voldemort's rank stench assailing his senses, and Snape knew that he could not let himself love her. His sanity could not stand it; Voldemort's years of abuse and the seeds of fear, and misery, and loneliness planted deep in his psyche would not be uprooted. And besides, he feared for her safety. Once Voldemort discovered her importance to him, he would do all in his considerable power to despoil and destroy her, for that was his way. He took a step back from her, murmuring,

"I don't think so, Ella," and he left her in the dark, dusty library, staring uncomprehending after him, as he made good his escape.

AUTHOR'S NOTE 

****

Thanks to Arachne's Child, author of the gripping 'Domina Rising', for allowing me to use the name 'Ariadne Marchand'. Love that name, Spider!

I'd love to know what you think about this, learning all about Snape's point of view. Is it what you expected? How does it compare with the original 'Snape in Love'?

Please review!


	6. Determination

**Chapter 6**

**Determination**

****

The skies had darkened as the morning progressed, and by the time they had been disturbed from their conversation by their daughter's internal clock demanding that she be fed, angry, roiling clouds were drawing a heavy curtain of rain across the mountain tops and the rolling pastures that led to Hogsmeade. Severus stood at the window of their spacious and comfortably furnished drawing room, and peered out at the gathering storm, wiping the condensation covered windowpanes with his palm before impatiently muttering a drying charm on the diamond leaded glass. 

 "Ella?" he called through to the nursery.

"Mmm?"

"You do know that I always loved you, don't you?"

"You didn't, though," she replied cheerfully, and he smiled in spite of himself as he watched her walk back through to him, seeing his baby's head move instinctually against her cupping hand. "Not until that evening. That's what you told me when you proposed."  
"Yes, but that was just when it became more difficult to fool myself…and I _did_ still try to deny you, for a long time."

"I know, love."

"It's never been easy for me to accept friendship or affection, not from anybody. I had to push you away and lose you before I could find it in myself to love you wholeheartedly."

"I went through a similar process, you know. I _do_ understand!"

"I know," he said ruefully. "Here, come and sit with me. A storm's coming." 

He sat at one end of the long window seat, with its heavily embroidered velvet cushions, and she curled up between his legs, snuggling back into his arms. He nuzzled her hair, breathing deeply, and caressed his daughter's back as she lay in Ella's arms waiting to be fed. Together, they looked out and watched the sheet of rain encroach on the fields and advance relentlessly on the castle. Soon, the lake was pitted with huge droplets of water and the storm's bombardment agitated the millpond-calm facade until its restless appearance echoed, for once, its true, hidden nature. The first low rumblings of thunder could scarcely be heard through the pounding of the rain against their window, but the castle knew the storm was coming and welcomed it, its stones in deep, sympathetic vibration, unmistakable as the family sat and waited. 

They did not have to wait long. Persephone had only just begun to suckle happily from her mother when the first flashes of lightning illuminated the distant crags, and soon forked tongues of blue-white electricity began to lap at the lake below.

"Severus, look!" Ella exclaimed. "It shouldn't be doing that, it should be hitting the Astronomy Tower!"

"Oh, Professor Sinistra _would_ be pleased to hear you say that!"

"You know what I mean! It isn't obeying the laws of physics!"

"Since when was anything at Hogwarts obliged to do that?"

"Yes, but – "

"It's the squid. Calling to it."

Ella twisted her head back to look up at her husband incredulously.

"You have got to be joking!"

He looked down at her, raising his eyebrows quizzically.

"Severus, it's a squid, not an electric eel! And even if it was, it wouldn't – "

"Look there!" Severus interrupted once more, nodding out of the window. Something large and swift was cutting through the water, very close to the churning surface, cutting a pulsating swathe of ripples as it raced along. Ella gaped as it broke the surface, a silvery grey smoothness dragging myriad tentacles in its wake.

"It – it must be thirty feet long!"

"Thirty three, to be precise. Hagrid likes to keep track," he  wryly as she glanced up at him once more. 

"I am _so_ glad I didn't know that before our wedding!" she replied with feeling.

Together, they watched as the giant squid broke the surface once more just as a fork of lightning arced down towards it. It was a direct hit, and small blue tendrils of electricity careened across the squid's undulating body and were absorbed. The squid submerged once more, but a ghostly outline could now be seen as it pulsed to the other side of the lake.

They watched with great interest as it repeated its strange behaviour several more times, until its glow shone almost as brightly in the lake as the full moon would in the sky, and then disappeared into the depths of the middle of the lake.

"That should keep the merpeople happy for a while," Severus noted with satisfaction. Ella sighed and shook her head.

"Go on, I have to ask. Why is that?"

He sniggered and said superciliously,

"There is an _awful lot_ you don't know about this school, isn't there?"

"Oh, don't be so smug!" she replied, digging him in the ribs with her elbow and eliciting a deep, rumbling laugh.

"It'll mean they can save their water magic for _other things_, instead of trying to illuminate the bottom of the lake! The squid will keep the place as bright below the surface as the day is above, for several weeks, I should think. So, the gillyweed will grow, all the other underwater plants will thrive, and they'll be free to tend their crops and to_ mate_!"

"Oh!" she replied, comprehension dawning, and then "_Ohhhh!_" as his lips nuzzled the soft skin just below her ear. His hand trailed along the curve of her neck and across her collarbone, down to the emerald that lay as ever at her breast, and he took its weight in his hand and closed his fingers around it. She covered his hand with hers, enclosing and caressing it, and tilted her head up to him so that he could adore her with his mouth.

After a few moments they broke apart, and Severus was ready to talk once more.

****

                    ************************************************************

He walked blindly but determinedly, ignoring everything and everyone in his path, until he reached the huge stone phoenix that guarded the slowly spiralling staircase leading to the Headmaster's office. The door swung open of its own accord as he reached the top, and he entered the room to see Dumbledore's purple-robed form stooping over the sight of his highly polished brass telescope, up in his small circular observatory.

"Sit down, my dear boy," called the Headmaster with a wave of his hand in the general direction of the fireplace. Too agitated to sit, Snape climbed the slender ladder up to the observatory instead, saying,

"Albus, I need to speak with you urgently."

"Is it about that girl you made cry? I saw the whole thing, you know," sneered the voice of Phineas Nigellus from his vantage point overlooking the small turreted mezzanine. Snape's head snapped up to glare at the portrait.

"This is none of your business!"

"Yes, which girl would that be, Severus, Miss Davenport of Hufflepuff, or Miss Redemte, whom I believe you have just left in the library, in some confusion?"

Disarmed, Snape swung back round to see Albus' clear blue eyes questioning him.

"Damn it, Albus, who made you so bloody omniscient?"

"Ah, Severus, you know me better than that!" the Headmaster smiled ruefully, shaking his head as he made a minute adjustment to his telescope and bent over it once more. "Although I have to say, one does not have to be a Legilimens to understand a man's heart!"

"Your sentimentality is anathema to me, Albus, as you well know. And surely _you_ know _me_ better than to profess to understand what passes for my _heart!"_

His only comment being a shrug of his wise old shoulders, Snape turned from the Headmaster, scoffing impatiently and descending the insubstantial ladder once more. He strode over to the fire and rested one arm on the mantelpiece, lowering his forehead until it lay on it as he looked into the flames. Soon after, Dumbledore joined him there and Snape lifted his head to look at him, broodingly. 

"I can't read her any more, Albus."

"We have had a similar conversation before, Severus, and I seem to remember my warning you _not_ to try to read Miss Redemte without her consent! It is an abuse of her trust, and a misuse of your talents!"

"And something you yourself, would never do, of course!" Snape accused bitterly. "This morning – in the library – I had no choice."

"There are _always_ choices, Severus."

"I had to. I'm – sorry, Albus. I had to know whether or not I was the one responsible for – her loss."

"Would your feelings change, if you found that you were?"

"My feelings?" Snape replied sharply. "I haven't said that I have feelings for her! You know as well as I do that unwarranted displays of emotion are a weakness that I can't afford. Voldemort would sense it in me and everything we have worked for would be lost!"

"Severus, my dear boy, leaving professional ethics aside for a moment, _why _do you suppose you are unable to read her? I seem to remember your doing so with little trouble mere weeks ago…I must, therefore, deduce that you are more deeply involved than you care to admit to yourself, and that your lack of objectivity is why you cannot read her."

"And I seem to remember having little trouble with Potter last year, _he_ was an open book to me, and there's no love lost between us! I can't…I can't keep a clear head around her…do you suppose she is diffusing a Befuddlement charm when we meet? I have heard that Muggles use certain  fragrances to great effect, it would be well within her capabilities to adapt one to contain such a spell, I'm sure Flitwick would know…"

The Headmaster shook his head in amusement and replied,

"Have you even considered the possibility that there is a natural attraction between the two of you?"

Snape grimaced and shook his head. 

"No, there isn't. That is to say…there can't be. I need to tell you what I intend to do."

"Indeed?"

"The – _attachment_ – that is growing – that appears to be growing – between myself and Miss Redemte cannot – _must_ not continue."

Dumbledore folded his hands in front of him and rocked gently on his heels, making no comment, but pursing his lips and raising an eyebrow in a manner that said he was well aware of the contradictions inherent in Snape's comments. Snape was aware of them too, and he glared at the Headmaster and continued. 

"She kissed me, and at the same time, I knew that she had seen something in me that I could not identify, but which didn't repel her, and I reached out, tentatively, and there was – nothing. Nothing at all. All I could think of was that I loved – that I was lost. And then I felt his call on my arm, faintly…I had a vision flash through me, of Voldemort, and I knew then that she could never be safe. He'll call me again soon, and too much is at stake. I will be brewing a particular potion this afternoon. I fully intend to ensure that Miss Redemte's misguided interest in me is squashed, for her own sake."

"And how do you propose to do that, exactly, Severus?" asked the Headmaster quietly.

"A potion exists that will – negate any physical reactions I may have whilst in her company. Once she has witnessed my lack of interest, and been subjected to my no doubt legendary sharp tongue, I fully expect that she will come to her senses and realise I shall always be unworthy of her."

"And why would you want to do something so destructive, boy?" frowned Dumbledore, his eyes steely as he compelled Snape by sheer force of will to meet his gaze.

"It cannot be! For her sake. I would ruin her, and if I didn't, the Dark Lord surely would." 

"No, Severus, I cannot allow it." 

Dumbledore's voice was firm, but filled with sympathy as he reached out to touch the younger man's shoulder. The effect on Snape was instantaneous. 

"No? Do you realise what – "

"I do. My answer is unchanged." 

Snape ran his hand through his hair desperately and crossed over to the window. He was holding his temper in check but his rage was born of fear and would not easily be contained.

Dumbledore continued, 

"You are wrong, Severus, and I cannot allow it! Ella is a bright girl, she will take a good deal of convincing! And why would you want to upset her like that? She may never understand your reasons."

"But I can't keep her safe! Voldemort will use her against me, everything we have all worked for will be put at risk! If he knew of my feelings for her, her life would be in danger, I will _not_ put her at risk!" Unable to prevent a note of pleading from creeping into his voice he continued, "It's far better that she should hate me. I couldn't bear to lose her at his hand. I need to protect her. I must not love her too much, he will sense it in me. I failed with Lily. I couldn't protect her and James. I _will not_ make the same mistake again!"

"Their deaths were not your fault, Severus! You did all you could!"

"And it wasn't enough! Albus, I've lived with this for the last sixteen years! I look at Harry every day and I'm reminded of my first love, and the one I lost her to! Now, I don't expect the Fates to give me a second chance, but I swear, I will _not_ let them repeat their treachery!"

Dumbledore shook his head sadly and sat down at his desk with a heavy sigh. 

"You've always been far too hard on yourself, Severus. Oh, very well. Do as you will. For my part, I'll keep your secret from her, until you choose to tell her yourself."

Snape sagged, turning back to the window and leaning against the stone lintel. He rubbed his brow with his hand as he said, "Thank you, Albus. I'll make the necessary preparations."

Snape spent the remainder of that day absorbed in his work. He had spent a full half hour on his knees in a dark, dusty corner of his office, searching through a tower of ancient and arcane volumes until he found the particular spell he sought. Carrying it to his work table, he laid it open and ran a long finger down the list of ingredients comprising 'A Potion To Negate The Effectes Of Physickal Arousal'. The ingredients required were all in his private stores, and he gathered them together with a heavy heart, laying them out on his work counter along with all of the equipment he would need for the preparation of the potion. He could not shake the image of Ella's face from his mind, nor the memory of the brush of her lips over his. He thought he would go mad, driven insane by the violence of the feelings both unfamiliar and yearned for that raged inside him. 

Only after the first ingredient had been tossed into the simmering cauldron did he manage, almost unconsciously, to subdue his emotions and allow the analytical side of his nature to reassert himself. Soon, he was lost in his work, absorbed in the creative process. He focussed with single-minded intensity on the shimmering fumes issuing from the steaming cauldron, mentally noting every change in their colour and aroma, adding carefully weighed ingredients, heedless of the dampened strands of hair sticking to his cheeks and the beads of moisture condensing on his brow. In his element now, he had forgotten completely the purpose of the potion he was creating, and all that mattered was that he did it to the best of his considerable ability.

The hours passed in an instant, and only after the straining process was complete did he remember himself. He stopped in his tracks, halfway to the cupboard where he stored an assortment of differently-sized glass vials, and he turned back to look at the bowl of clear, odourless liquid on his workbench, his gut twisting with the recollection of what he would have to do. With a heavy heart                 and a pronounced scowl marring his noble features, he took several vials from the cupboard and decanted the liquid into them. He stoppered them tightly, and discarded the remainder into the large stone sink in the corner of the room, making sure to rinse it out thoroughly and berating himself for being so damned professional even when his heart was splintering.

Three of the vials he placed on a high narrow shelf, concealed behind a selection of coloured jars with rusted screw-top lids containing dried flora and pickled fauna rarely used and remembered even less, while the fourth and last he took into his office. Hesitating for a moment, he shook his head impatiently then poured its contents into one of the golden goblets set upon the sideboard, added wine until the goblet was half full, looked at it intently for a few moments to ensure that the wine kept its colour and thus proved the efficacy of the brew, then returned to the store cupboard to lock it, before setting off for dinner.

She wore purple velvet that night and took his breath away. He had pushed all thoughts of her to the very back of his mind, and was holding them at bay with that most effective of distractions, a small but vociferous collection of Gryffindors who were sniggering in a most irritating fashion over a copy of the Daily Prophet. By the time her signature scent alerted him to her appearance at his side, it was too late. She had touched him on the shoulder, sending a lightning bolt to make his heart stumble over a beat or two, and he had no time to school his reaction as he turned to confront her presence. Even if his eyes had not been on a level with the swell of her exquisitely displayed breasts, creamy white against the rich crushed velvet of her closely fitting décolleté bodice, the immediate southwards rush of blood would have been equally disconcerting. 

"There was something you wanted to ask me, Severus," she said, challenging him with the direct gaze he found so alluring, and so terrifying. "In the library this morning, when you came looking for me. You left so suddenly, you forgot to ask. What was it?"

His throat was constricted, and he tried not to stare as he stammered out something, anything, in response.

"It was, erm, ah, simply a question about the anti- erm- swelling potion to reduce joint pain" he stuttered inarticulately. He was unable to think about anything else but the swelling that had evidently cut off all the blood supply from that part of his brain that normally concerned itself with cognitive reasoning and the formulation of intelligent conversation, replacing it instead with bumbling inanity. She seemed to accept his explanation with equanimity, replying with what he detected as a slightly amused tone that suggested that she knew her power over him,

"Let's discuss it after dinner, shall we?"

She smiled sweetly, and gave him no opportunity to demur. She turned and made for her seat without a backward glance, leaving him to shift uncomfortably on his chair and wonder how it was that she had managed to take control of every conversation they had ever had. His defences were crumbling, he knew, and it would take every bit of his resolve to carry out his plan.

The pair spent most of the ensuing meal watching one another, and Snape wondered at the maelstrom of emotion he felt. He was accustomed to the anger and the fear, but confusion and desire were their strange new bedfellows and he could not easily reconcile them. He was sure his thoughts were written plainly all over his face, and her steady, perplexed scrutiny only served to confirm his fears, but the strength of his feelings for her coupled with the knowledge of the damage he intended to do and the hurt he would put in those clear green eyes prevented him from donning his habitual mask of impassivity.

He decided it would be best to slip away before dinner ended, determined to prepare himself for what lay ahead. 

If he thought that retreating to his sanctuary would help alleviate his anxiety he was mistaken. He paced from his office to his bedroom and back again, imagining what he would say to her when she arrived, what she would say to him, on and on, over and over, until he reached the end when he would begin all over again. And every single scenario ended in the same way, with her eyes awash with tears and his bitter knowledge that no glorious phoenix could ever rise from the ashes of his wretched life. 

A familiar knock at his office door alerted him to the Headmaster's arrival.

"Is it done?" Dumbledore asked. 

"Yes," Snape replied through gritted teeth, every muscle in his tightly wound body a silent chorus for his words. "It's ready. I'll do it tonight. If she comes to me."

"Oh, she'll come to you Severus. I am certain of it, for she loves you," the Headmaster said sadly.

"Why me, Albus? What does she see in me? I certainly don't deserve her," he said bitterly.

"Well, well, as usual you do yourself a disservice, my friend. But some things are meant to be. They are written in the moon and the stars. No matter what you do, your plan may yet fail."

Snape shook his bowed head.

"If it fails, then I fail us all. And Ella. I can't let that happen."  

"So be it. I'll be in my office later, Severus, if I am needed."

And, with resignation, Dumbledore got to his feet and left Snape alone.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

****

Thanks for all your reviews. I value every one, and I find them very encouraging. Please, keep them coming! ;-)


	7. Separation

****

**Chapter 7**

**Separation**

****

Perhaps Persephone grew tired, eventually, of waiting for her parents to stop watching the rain drum its relentless rhythm on the diamond-leaded glass of the windowpanes, for she began to add her own keening accompaniment to the insistent beat. Severus was the first to notice that her distress was possibly related to something more prosaic, however, being in possession of olfactory senses sharpened to an almost preternatural degree over the years. Breaking off his narrative in order to alert his wife to his concerns, Ella turned round and swung her legs on to the floor, giving her morose husband a lingering kiss before standing up and carrying Persephone through to the nursery where she began to tend to her.

Severus pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers and rubbed his eyes, and then followed her, stalking after her from room to room as she busied herself, standing watching with folded arms and a closed expression, growing impatient in the end and pulling her back towards the window seat. She faced him now, resting against his raised leg, which was propped at the knee against the windowpanes. She caressed his stern face and stroked back his hair before reaching up to kiss the deep frown line between his eyes and then settling her head on his broad chest and wrapping her arms around his waist.

He found himself relieved that he could not see her eyes as he spoke on. He did not think he would be able to bear the compassion he found there. It was undeserved, and in too sharp a counterpoint to that which he had to relate.

                             ****************************************************

He paced his office, staring at the workbench where he had brewed the anti-arousal potion scant hours before, signing the death warrant for his hopes and dreams. He shook his head angrily. When had he become so maudlin? And why, exactly, had he allowed himself to become so weak that he had to break a woman's heart simply because he could not subdue his errant feelings? And how had he fallen so desperately in love? And why on earth did she move him so?

He heard her footfall on the stone floor of the classroom, and his gut twisted as he opened the door at her knock. She was a vision, the embodiment of all that was worthwhile in his miserable life. He took her hand in his, her touch threatening his resolve with every second that passed. He could not take his eyes from her, and he drank in the sight of her like a castaway finding a clear, cool stream to quench a raging thirst. 

 "What is it, Severus?" she asked gently. "Is something troubling you?" 

He could not take the potion. It was a mistake to think he could voluntarily deprive himself of her for the greater good, for a noble cause, and what recognition would it bring, anyway? Certainly none that was worth the sacrifice. He answered her earnestly,

"Believe me when I say this, Ella, you look beautiful tonight. You do every night." He dropped her hands and pulled her to him, enfolding her at last, and he shivered with want of her as he bent his head to hers to seek out a kiss that she was only too willing to return. She gasped,

"Ah!" as their lips touched at last. He had longed for this moment, ached to feel the brush of his lips on hers. His mind was reeling with apprehension and he wondered whether or not she would be able to tell that this was the first time he had kissed a woman with anything other than a sort of desperate detachment, a forced, savage lust that accompanied a physical release but left a gaping chasm between what was, and what should be. He called it love without really knowing what that was, but he knew that he had never felt this way before. Her lips were soft, warm and pliant, and he felt a wild gratitude as they opened under his, welcoming him. 

The forcefulness of his usual technique was completely inappropriate under these unprecedented circumstances, he knew, and he did not know what would be considered acceptable to her in its stead, and so his kiss was hesitant at first, but to his amazement she answered it with a heat that consumed him completely. Their lips parted, and instead of thrusting his tongue into her mouth he simply allowed its tip to touch hers, which licked at it insistently until he could bear it no longer and invaded her, gently exploring every ridge and crevice of her soft, warm palate, learning the contours of her teeth, laving her tongue, feeling her moan his name into his mouth,

"Severus!"

Their passion grew, but his mouth left hers wanting as he succumbed to his need to taste her flesh, to explore her with his mouth, to adore her, to love her. His fingers splayed out in the small of her back, holding her so tightly that he thought in his delirium that he could absorb her into himself. Her hands were in his hair, stroking through it, sending shockwaves through his scalp and a hard, insistent pulsing in his groin. She ground her hips against his erection and he felt his legs begin to tremble. He could scarcely believe that she wanted him as much as he wanted her, and as the blood rushed through his ears, pounding relentlessly, beating out an insistent, undeniable, primal rhythm, he decided that he could not, _would_ not deny it.

But as he sucked and nipped at the soft, creamy flesh of her shoulder he felt an all-too-familiar prickle on his forearm, and all his dreams died once more and turned to ashes in his mouth as his logic reminded him of what he had gone to great pains to explain to Dumbledore only that very afternoon. That he could not let himself love her for one reason, and for _one reason only_, never mind the Order or the war, or whether he deserved her or not. He could not let himself love her, as he knew very well, because to love her would be to kill her, as surely as if he had poisoned her himself sixteen years before, along with the rest of her family. For if Voldemort ever discovered his attachment, he would corrupt, pervert and destroy it. 

He had to take the potion, he had to seduce Ella, and then he had to cast her aside. With a pain inside that he suspected was the death throes of an under-used and protesting heart, he broke away from her at last. Panting, he strode to the dresser where the potion was waiting for him. It may as well have been mocking him. He drained it, his throat so constricted with self-loathing that he could scarcely swallow, and then turned back to Ella, to find her leaning against his round desk, flushed with fever flashing from her eyes. 

"Why me?" he whispered, bewildered and already bereft. "Why would you want _me_?"

"Why wouldn't I? I can't get you out of my mind, Severus. I'm falling in love with you."

Love. He could not love her, and she must not love him. Should the Dark Lord ever find out, the consequences would be unbearable.

"You _can't_ love me! I can't allow it!" he rasped.

"You don't have any choice, love! It's far too late for that!" 

Damnable woman! Beautiful, desirable, beloved, damnably, wilfully stupid woman! She came closer, until there was nothing separating them save for their clothing and his own accursed mendacity. Her fingers caressed his cheek and he closed his eyes for a moment before taking her wrist and holding it away from his face, unable to bear the contact yet knowing that he was about to let himself be far more intimate than that. Letting out a ragged breath he said sadly,

"Then let's see where this shall take us." 

Enfolding Ella in his arms once more, marvelling at the way her soft, pliant body moulded itself to his in surrender, he swooped down and covered her parting lips with his, welcoming her questing tongue as it flicked against his teeth, sucking it into his mouth and feeling the ache in his groin grow still more agonisingly sweet. He ran his hands up and down her back and she arched into him, pressing her breasts into his chest. Burning with desire, he needed to feel the contours of those breasts against him, and his frock coat with its serried ranks of buttons protecting him from unwanted physical contact was an inconvenient barrier to his newly discovered craving for it. He shrugged it off to reveal black trousers and a tailored white shirt underneath, whose many buttons Ella began to pull open with an impatience that inflamed him even further. He had to touch her, he had to know her. 

He had to wound her. He had to wound himself.

With sure, nimble fingers he unbuttoned her dress, his fingers grazing the soft curves of her breasts. He removed her bra impatiently, his eager hands taking the place of the soft lacy fabric he had tossed aside, supporting their heaviness, making his straining penis jump against the constraints of his tightly buttoned trousers. He wondered fleetingly how long it would be before the potion took effect, as his thumbs rubbed across her erect nipples, making her gasp her need into his mouth. Reluctantly he let his hands drop down to the satin smoothness of her waist, so that he could pick her up and lift her on to the edge of his desk, and then finally, with a last long, sensuous swirl of his tongue, he broke their kiss and let his mouth taste her neck, making an insistent journey down past her salt-sweet collarbone to the tantalising place where her flesh swelled and spilled over his hands. As his mouth closed over one of her deliciously hard, pink nubs, he felt the tip of his desperately stiff penis begin to leak, and he moaned, her softness muffling the sound and trapping it so that it resounded loudly in his ears. His face was buried in her, and her hands were stroking his hair and pressing his head into her, and her scent and her taste were so intoxicating that he wished he could stay forever, and suffocate in her.

"Oh! Oh! _Severus_!" she gasped, and he almost came at the sound of his name spoken with such abandon and such passion. Her chest was heaving as she continued to pant it out, and his hand crept round to stroke its way up her outer thigh and then round, until her pants had become sobs. He slipped his hand under the waistband of her briefs and slowly removed them before cupping her passion-dampened mound in his hand, his long fingers finally caressing the secret centre of her, slick and hot and all because of him. 

His resolve began to waver once more. This was new, this was bliss, this was a power the like of which he had never known. He began to lose himself once more as his fingers explored her, delighting in each throaty moan, each convulsive grasp of his hair, each buck of her hips into his palm; but then the potion started to take effect and he could sense a peculiar coldness in his groin, starting in his balls. They stopped aching with the insistent imperative to release their seed and became slack and numb instead, the loss of feeling spreading quickly along his rigid shaft until it reached the sensitive tip, when he felt a sudden and unexpected stab of pain before it began to shrink back to its quiescent state. He grunted in surprise but continued to stroke her velvety folds, the heady scent of her arousal growing ever more pungent, making his keen nostrils flare with excitement despite the fact that his body had become for all practical purposes impervious to her charms. 

She screamed out his name deliriously as she came for him, digging her fingers into the soft cotton of his shirt, and he kept on laving her nipples with his tongue, circling his thumb around her clitoris, slipping his fingers in and out as her internal walls contracted around them. He did not stop until she was quite spent and his palm had been thoroughly soaked by her orgasm, and when at last he relinquished her breasts and looked up at her, he felt so bleak that all he could do was stand over her as she took his face in her hands and covered his face with tearful kisses that mingled with his own silent ones. The coldness had begun to spread now, reaching icy tendrils up to his heart, using the very same blood vessels that had enabled his arousal to suppress any remaining evidence of it now. Soon a prickling sensation in his sinuses alerted him to the fact that the potion was effecting its final transformation on his protesting but defenceless body, and he gazed at her helplessly in a mute farewell as the chill crept across his eyeballs, shuttering his feelings as surely as if steel walls had been erected around them. 

She did not appear to notice any change in him at first, for to his despair she unwittingly fell right into his deceitful trap, sliding off the desk, heedless of her state of undress, to kneel at his feet and begin to unbutton his trousers. Her confusion when at last she realised that he was flaccid and lifeless wrenched his gut, but he forced himself to stand impassively and watch as she stroked him and then took him from his green silk boxers. He felt nothing as she wrapped her luscious mouth around him and began to suck at him and swirl her tongue around his soft shaft. He could tell that she was stroking and squeezing his sac, but although such attentions would under any other circumstances have left him arching his back and begging for more, now he did not react at all. She reached around his back to stroke his buttocks, pulling him to her firmly. Part of him watched her with cool detachment, idly wondering how long it would take before she realised that all her remarkably adept efforts were in vain. The greater part of him yearned to reach for her, draw her up into his arms and tell her what he had done, and why, and beg her to forgive him. The potion had numbed his body, not his heart, and his conscience battled with his reason as he wondered which way to turn.

At length she admitted defeat, sitting back on her knees and looking up at him, perplexed and a little afraid. He had no choice, and for him continually to pretend to himself that he did was foolish, sentimental and selfish, and would aid neither of them in the long run. He had a part to play, and while she might never thank him for it, at least _he_ would know that he had acted with her best interests at heart. He threw himself into the part, drawing back his lips from his teeth in a ghastly approximation of a smile.

"Severus, what's wrong?" she asked,

He threw back his head and laughed then, and since laughing was the last thing he felt like doing in this particular situation he was not surprised to hear its mirthless, hollow quality. His voice was deliberately cold, flat and dull as he said cruelly,

"Can't you guess, woman? You don't _amuse_ me any more! I've given you what you've been panting for all these weeks, aren't you satisfied? You can go now, _I've_ no use for you."

She would not believe him at first. Astutely, she glanced across to his goblet, which lay empty on the sideboard.

"No! What have you _done_? Did you take something?"

Swallowing a constriction in his throat, he raised his eyebrows, opened his arms wide, and looked down at himself.

"Believe the incontrovertible evidence of your own eyes, Miss Redemte! Oh, but I forgot - your own pathetic, lustful need had blinded you, hasn't it? Then let me spell it out - _I don't want you_!"

"No, no, that's _not true_, I _know_ it's not true!" 

"Oh, I admit you've been a diversion," he continued, her stubborn rebuttal of his argument expected but heartrending nonetheless, "but as soon as I saw you without your clothes on, well, _somehow_, you lost all your mystique! Lupin and Black can have you between them; they must know you're desperate for it! Tell me, did you wait for them to transform first? Are four legs better than two?"

His own words appalled him. That had not been part of the painstakingly prepared script he had rehearsed in his head while awaiting her that night. It did have the effect he had intended, however. She was horrified and shrank from him, clutching her clothes around herself as if covering her nakedness could protect her from the bitter chill of his words. He made himself appraise her coldly for a moment, then turned away on the pretext of fastening his trousers in order to hide the anguished grimace that threatened to contort his face. Using the most bored, dismissive tone that he could, he threw back over his shoulder,

"Well, why are you still here?"

Hiccoughing sobs increased in their intensity, and he heard her gather the rest of her clothes and run from his office. 

His shoulders began to shake, and a tight churning in his stomach expanded until its need for some egress was undeniable. It rose up, up into his chest and throat, and found release as ghastly shouting laughter, uncontrollable, humourless and hysterical. He could not stop it, could rein himself in no longer, but as it ran its course he was almost pleased with his reaction. She would surely have heard it, and it would serve to further impress upon her that her infatuation was hopeless. 

The laughter died at last, and he leaned over his desk with his head bowed, his long dark locks obscuring his face. Pain wracked him and his body shook violently as the effects of the potion wore off. The uncomfortable iciness with which it had taken effect was as nothing compared to the white hot needles of pain that stabbed through his genitals now and into his eyes, screwed tight shut. His shoulders heaved as the agony began to fade, and he took full stock of what he had done. 

He was alone. He deserved to be alone, and lonely. At that moment, though, the regret he felt over all his misdemeanours, all his crimes, all the debaucheries he had been a party to, was as nothing in comparison to what he had made Ella suffer. He hated himself for the pain he had inflicted on her, and he hated Voldemort for depriving him of the chance to love her, and be loved in return. 

The sound came from deep inside him, from the pit of his stomach, a guttural growl that rose in pitch and intensity until it issued from his mouth in an agonised 

"Nooooo!" and he drove his fist down on to the table so hard that it shook, despite its solidity. Then, sagging, he crossed over to his chair and slumped into it, his left hand covering his eyes, as a single tear rolled down his cheek.

He could smell her. Her scent was all over his hand, and as he drew it away from his face he could see his fingertips still wrinkled from her wetness. He moaned in anguish, remembering her warmth and her wonderful desire for him, and everything that that could have meant for them, and he pressed his fingers to his trembling mouth, tasting the musky sweetness with the tip of his tongue before pushing them in and licking and sucking at them, desperate to taste her, to absorb her essence into himself. To remember her.

She left two days later. He had paced the corridors all through the night he had sent her away, trying to walk her out of his mind. It had not worked, of course, and the treacherous staircases conspired to lead him towards the hospital wing with their every shift, until he was disoriented and impatient at their machinations and admitted defeat, retreating to the dungeons and seeing in the dawn with half a bottle of firewhisky.

Professor Dumbledore had called him by Floo before breakfast, and Snape had made a bald statement to the effect that he had enlightened Miss Redemte as to his true nature, and that any friendship that they might have developed existed no more. Dumbledore had nodded in understanding, but nevertheless had insisted Snape be present in the Great Hall for breakfast that morning.

He was not surprised at Ella's absence from breakfast, lunch and dinner that day, nor did the news of her leaving the following day come as any great shock. His heart had ached, and his temper was foul, but he had found that by setting his classes detailed assignments which could be done in class with minimal supervision, he could avoid interaction with them almost completely. Instead, he locked himself into his office for half an hour at a time throughout that first day, sitting by the cold grate of the fireplace, brooding into the ashes there and railing silently at the Fates who had decreed in their cruel wisdom that wretched isolation should be his lot in life.

                                                                       ****

He might have known that Sirius Black was the type that could not let sleeping dogs lie. The morning after Ella's departure he and Lupin had returned from a few days probably spent licking each other's bollocks at the Shrieking Shack, and he had decided it was appropriate to storm down to the dungeons and invade Snape's privacy. He had absolutely no idea of what had caused Ella's departure, of course, and Snape saw no earthly reason to enlighten him. If Black was too stupid to see that Ella was far better off out of the way of the Order and a Death Eater spy, then he was more obtuse than even Snape had believed. Certainly his choice of the Leglocker curse as an opening gambit was remarkably inept, since Snape had been sitting down at the time and therefore able to parry it easily with a roll of his eyes and a bored 

"Tarantallegra!"

 He had to give credit where it was due, however. Black's use of the Proboscis Gargantua hex was remarkably effective, if not especially inspired. Particularly as he had invoked it whilst dancing frantically between the armchair and the fireplace.

Supporting the weight of his enormous nose with his left hand, Snape had removed the curse from his legs while Black had been busy laughing manically. Lupin, never far behind Black, had burst in with a furious Dumbledore in tow just as Snape had released his most inspired hex of the duel.

"Facsimilimortis!" he had shouted, and to his fiendish satisfaction Black's skin had turned a most unpleasant greenish blue, gobs of flesh had begun to fall from his arms, and his eyeballs had milked over.

"What have you done to me, you bastard?" Black gurgled, but before Snape could explain, in an unusually nasal tone, exactly what the curse entailed, and just why he had no intention of supplying the counter curse, the Headmaster shouted,

"Finite Incantatae!" and all of the spells were nullified instantly. The sudden loss of his unfeasibly huge nose made Snape feel quite light-headed for a moment, and he staggered and leaned on his desk. 

Dumbledore was incensed. 

"What is the meaning of this?"

"Snivellus here won't tell me what he did to Ella!" Black complained, glaring at Snape with naked hatred on his face.

"I fail to see that it has anything to do with you, Black!" Snape retorted icily.

Tempers began to rise once more. All that the idiot Black could do was keep on asking why Ella had gone, and speculating on Snape's parentage into the bargain. Eventually the Headmaster shooed him and Lupin from Snape's office, and closed the door on them impatiently before turning to Snape.

"Severus, this is inexcusable."

"I agree wholeheartedly, Headmaster. I trust you will be dismissing Black at your earliest opportunity?"

"On _both_ your parts, Severus!"

Snape raised an unrepentant eyebrow and pursed his lips, looking down at his desk and outlining the grain of the wood with long fingers. Dumbledore frowned and shook his head resignedly.

"Use the pensieve, Severus."

"I…choose not to," he replied, still watching the whorls of wood under his fingers.

"I was not offering you a choice, Severus. _Your_ choice was to reject Ella," – at this, Snape frowned – "and by doing so you have set on course a chain of events that will need careful management. As indeed would _any_ choice you might have made. Your actions were designed to keep Ella safe, were they not?"

Snape raised both eyebrows and nodded.

"Then you are as aware as I am that should the next summons come and you are not prepared…"

"Yes, yes, I understand. But I feel – I am loath to dismiss her so quickly from my thoughts. It's too cruel."

"To Ella? I assure you, you can make her feel no worse, now. And as for yourself…now is not the time for self-flagellation, old friend. There is a war to be fought. Use the pensieve, Severus, or put us all at risk."

After he had gone, Snape sat at his desk for a very long time, deep in thought. He knew that with each memory and emotion he stored in the pensieve, his pain and guilt would lessen until at last he would find it all too easy to forget he ever loved her. And he knew he was not ready to relinquish that love. It had been his for too short a time.

At last, with a heavy heart, he walked slowly through to his bedroom, where the pensieve sat on the mantelpiece, mocking him. Dumbledore was right, as usual. It was his duty to the Order, the war effort, to everything he had fought for these long lonely years. A few minutes later, he was standing unwillingly before the shallow grey bowl and extracting the more intense and painful of his memories of Ella. 

The silver mist in the pensieve swirled and churned restlessly, becoming more agitated as he grew more calm, and by the time evening came the constricting lump in his throat, which had been there with every thought of her, was gone, and the rawness of his loss was dulled until he thought of her almost in the same way as one would a beloved family pet, long since dead. 

Rationally, he still deeply regretted his behaviour, and wished that he could turn time back to that evening by the fire, and stop it there. Selfishly, he was glad of the pensieve's ability to spare him the misery he would undoubtedly have suffered without it. Guiltily, he wished Ella had a similar device, for the last thing he had wanted was to cause her pain. He found it much easier, however, to remind himself why his actions had been so very necessary, and he was confident that now he would be able to shield his thoughts from the Dark Lord with his usual skill. 

                                                                   ****

The summons from the Dark Lord had come mere days later. Snape had given him details of the Ministry's latest intake for Auror training, deliberately underplaying their skills levels and regaling Voldemort with amusing anecdotes about their incompetence with his natural caustic wit. The Dark Lord had been most amused at the entertainment supplied by his little pet, and had fondled him afterwards for such a long time that Snape had feared the resumption of a closeness Voldemort had enjoyed years before. As Voldemort had walked slowly round a motionless Snape, trailing his yellowed taloned fingers across Snape's robes, letting them linger and explore the area of Snape's lower abdomen with horrific attentiveness, all that Snape could think of was the scent of jasmine, curling round his senses and counteracting the rotten stench of decomposition that always accompanied Voldemort's proximity.

Before he could stifle the memory of Ella's scent, Voldemort had noticed it. He stopped his silent gliding around Severus' stiff-backed blackness, and his hand cupped Severus' genitals, squeezing gently but with the implied threat of milking then crushing never far away.

"Jasmine? Can I sense….jasmine, Severus? Now, why would you think of that, I wonder?"

"Sprout's been growing it in the greenhouses," Snape said dismissively, the lie coming easily after years of deception and thinking on his feet. "It helps calm the mandrakes, one of the nasty little buggers tried to bite me yesterday. I am sorry, my Lord, I was simply remembering the delight I took in slitting its throat…"

Voldemort laughed shrilly, delighted once more by his protégé's mordant wit. With an affectionate squeeze that made the bile rise in Snape's throat, Voldemort released him and glided silently back to his throne in the centre of the garishly decorated room. 

He had been dismissed several hours later, with much needed intelligence as to planned Death Eater attacks later that month on a series of Muggle underground stations, and having been spared from repeated exposure to Cruciatus for the first time in months. After his debriefing with Albus Dumbledore he had returned to his rooms, to take stock of his latest encounter with the Dark Lord and re-acclimatise himself. He was angry with himself at his loss of self control when Voldemort had touched him. He had to learn to control his feelings more effectively. 

He had thought that by decanting his memories and emotions regarding Ella into the pensieve he would be unreadable, but he was coming to realise that forgetting her had to be something that he really wanted to do. Realisation hit him like a physical force, stopping his breath and making him reach out a hand to his desk to steady himself. He feared that no matter how hard he tried, and how much he inured himself to her memory, still she had occupied a corner of his mind and would refuse stubbornly to be dislodged.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

Thanks to all my regular readers and reviewers for your support so far. Your constancy means a lot and is a rare thing. 

This chapter went over old ground, albeit from a new perspective. In the next chapter you will find out how Snape fared in the months he and Ella were apart.


	8. Realisation

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

****

I'd like to thank everyone for their reviews so far. Your comments are very much appreciated. I think every review for the last chapter mentioned my portrayal of the 'inner Snape'. That's what this story is all about, and I am so glad that you approve of what I am doing with the character. Do hold on to your hats as the story unfolds…he has many inner demons to vanquish before the end.

Shadowycat – yes, it's harder for me to read yours than to write mine, LOL!

Arachne's Child – Voldemort gets quite a bit worse! And I'm glad the duel amused you. It certainly did me!

Carole – no, he doesn't get it! But he will!

MedievalWoman, precious-jewel and AltoSaxyGirl – keep reading, and enjoy the ride! ;-)

****

**Chapter 8**

**Realisation**

****

The sky was steadfast in its refusal to lighten for the rest of that day. Its heavy grey mantle weighed down on the landscape like a thick blanket, suffocating everything below it before depositing a clear varnish of water, as if further emphasis of its oppression were needed. In his anguish at the retelling of his tale, Severus had begun to prowl the length and breadth of the sombre room like an angry panther, pacing its perimeter in a desperate quest for the succour of understanding that only Ella could give. Knowing better than to placate him with platitudes she was silent, her demeanour and the love and warmth blazing from her eyes all the clue he needed as to her acceptance.

At last, his mood as overcast as the darkling murk outside their window, he sat, throwing himself on to one of the accommodating blue leather sofas before the fire in an uncharacteristically heedless fashion, throwing his arm up so that it obscured his face and left his hand trailing over the back of the sofa.

"I can't stand it, Ella," he muttered wearily. "I don't know why I ever started this!"

His wife sighed and left her seat at the window, taking his hand as she passed behind him, caressing his long white fingers and raising them to her lips. Exhaling vocally, he gripped her wrist as she rounded the corner of the sofa and pulled, so that she fell across the arm and into his lap. She wound her arms around his neck, tangling her fingers in his long black hair and burying her nose in it, while he in turn lost himself in the soft skin of her neck, breathing deeply the scent of jasmine and beloved wife and when that was no longer enough for him, licking and tasting the smooth satiny skin there until he began to feel tiny purring moans from deep in her throat.

"I know something that will make me feel better," he whispered huskily, his low voice thrumming at the hollow of her throat, his hot breath sending delicious goosebumps along her shoulder and down her spine.

"So do I," she said, closing her eyes as her grip on him tightened and she fought not to melt into his embrace. "Dinner in the Great Hall."

He stopped his gentle sucking at the curve of her collarbone and said, in a muffled voice,

"That wasn't what I had in mind at all!"

Ella began to disentangle herself, feeling her resolve waver as she saw the disappointment in her husband's piercing black eyes.

"I know. But we've both been in here all day, we could both do with a change of scene, don't you think? Love, I know this has been difficult for you. And I'm proud of you, and I love you – but I think it'd do you good to take your mind off it for a few hours. There's always tomorrow, isn't there?"

"Hmph."

"And the rest of our lives?" she cajoled, making him roll his eyes. "And besides, Caius is going away this weekend, we need to spend some time with him before he goes."

"What for? He'll be back the week after! He's only going to Ireland!"

"Even so. He still isn't sure you've completely made your peace, you know."

"Quite right too, nor should he be…" Severus grumbled, letting his wife extricate herself from his grip. 

"Tonks is going with him, you know," Ella said archly.

"Tonks? What do you mean, _Tonks_ is going with him?"

"He says they met at the Ministry last week, and they really hit it off."

"Did they indeed? _Wonderful_!" he replied sarcastically. "What was he doing at the Ministry, anyway?"

"Arthur was showing him round. The Weasleys all adore him."

"Hah! Well, he'd fit _right_ in there, wouldn't he? Did you know my nickname for him was Chaos, when we were children? It would drive Mother mad, she couldn't see the logic behind it at all…"

Ella laughed at his unintentional wit, and hugged him. He ran his hands up and down her back until she squirmed against him.

"Dinner's an hour away, though; I'll run us a bath."

"Us?" She raised her eyebrows enquiringly.

"_Us_," he affirmed, piercing her with the look she knew so well. He would brook no argument, and she 

had none she cared to offer.

****

            ******************************************************************                                                                  

Weeks turned into months, and Snape was not called to the Dark Lord's side again. The Death Eater attack on the London Underground infrastructure was thwarted with no loss of Muggle life, although several Aurors lost their lives and a huge Ministry clean-up was needed afterwards to make sure all Muggle witnesses were Obliviated. None of the Aurors had been members of the Order of the Phoenix, but several Order members had been close to them, in particular Albus Dumbledore, who had taught them all over the years. Their loss was felt keenly, and feelings ran all the higher at the Ministry's refusal to acknowledge their bravery by presenting to their families posthumous awards of the Order of Merlin. Cornelius Fudge and his minions were still refusing to accept the rise of Voldemort and insisted that 'making a fuss' would draw too much attention to what the Minister maintained were ill-founded rumours. They were scandalised when Dumbledore insisted on holding a memorial ceremony at the school in memory of those who had fallen. Snape's role in the operation went unacknowledged and unrewarded, as usual, and the more Fudge blustered and denied the obvious truth, the more Snape disliked the officious little man.

Another man even more worthy of his contempt was Sirius Black. He had visited Ella at Durmstrang shortly before Christmas but had come back even more bitter at Snape than before, a development Snape noted with satisfaction. While his affection for Ella had been tempered by the distance between them, both physically and emotionally since the more extreme of his feelings were churning inside a pensieve hidden safely on a high shelf, he did still dream of her on occasion, both in sleep and in wakefulness, and he did not want to entertain the idea that she might find pleasure in the company of another man. Especially not a self-serving gigolo and feeble minded dilettante such as Sirius Black. 

His lessons were without incident, save for the usual disasters involving either Longbottom or the youngest Creevey brother who was a natural successor to the hapless seventh year, since Snape was so practised in his craft that he sometimes felt he would be able to deliver whole lessons in his sleep. 

So the time passed. 

His thoughts turned frequently to Ella as the spring term drew to a close, knowing that soon she would be leaving Durmstrang for Beauxbatons, and in his less selfish moments he even hoped that she had forgotten about him. However, his feelings had been tempered by the pensieves and the passage of time, and his mind did not dwell on her for very long at a time.

The summer term was the usual round of NEWT and OWL preparation; there were papers to be set, revision to be scheduled, lessons still to take, and increased duties as Head of House as panic-stricken fifth and seventh year Slytherins required whatever solace they could get, even his own particularly astringent brand. 

Thus it was that the next time he was summoned to the Dark Lord's side, the unremitting tedium of the daily Hogwarts grind was uppermost in his mind, and he therefore occluded his thoughts from Voldemort as easily as he ever had in the days before he had met Ella. No errant hints of jasmine betrayed him, no images of mossy green eyes disarmed him, not even when his own gastric juices burned his throat and he lay prostrate on the uneven stone floor, convulsing under repeated Cruciatus curses. Voldemort did, after all, have several months' worth of cruelty to catch up on.

                                                                           ***

"Severus, dear, this just isn't on, really it isn't!" fretted Madam Pomfrey as she fussed around his bed in the Hospital Wing on his return, waving her wand to summon various jars of brightly coloured unguents and bottles of foul-smelling medicines. 

"And what, exactly, do you propose I do about it?" Snape asked acidly, grimacing as he removed the lid from a large bottle of dark orange potion before steeling himself and raising the neck to his mouth to gulp down its contents.

"Repeated exposure to multiple doses of the Cruciatus curse can cause no end of problems in later life!"

"If I even _live_ that long!" he pointed out, his voice grating and harsh. "You don't need to quote the textbooks at me, Poppy, I am well aware of what they contain!"

Paling, her lips set into a tight line, Madam Pomfrey made a pretence of straightening the blankets at the foot of his bed.

"You know what the alternative would be, anyway," he continued in a low voice, looking down at the empty bottle in his hands, not wanting to risk looking at the bluff but caring witch who had tended him for more years than he cared to remember. "At least I don't have to lie on my stomach for a week, and use a ringed cushion for the next month! And you haven't had to get the blue ointment out for a long time now…"

"Oh, Severus!" she said in a strangled voice, her hand fluttering to her mouth as she tried to compose herself.

"Spare me the sympathy, Poppy! Save it for yourself, for when I'm dead and gone and you're returned to treating outbreaks of acne and grazed knees!" he said, with a bitter sigh. "Because you know as well as I do that this is the…_preferred_ option."

"I know, dear. I do!" she said tremulously. "And one day, _he'll_ be the one that's dead and gone, and all this will be over, and we can all get on with our lives."

Snape gave a hollow laugh, and watched as Madam Pomfrey bustled back to her office, leaving him alone. Thoughts of what his life would be like if Voldemort was ever defeated filled his mind. Never again to have to obey the call of the Dark Mark, never to feel its prickle creep over his flesh, never to endure the searing agony of delaying its summons…how different might his life have been if he had never chosen the path of promised knowledge without considering its probable, terrible cost.

He thought of Ella that night, as he lay in the high, narrow metal-framed bed surrounded by fabric-covered privacy screens, wondering idly where she was and what she was doing. Wondering whether she still thought of him. Memories of her saddened him, in an abstract, distant sort of way, as if seen through a long lens. Thank goodness for the pensieve, he thought darkly, folding his arms above his head and gazing up at the darkened, vaulted ceiling, grudgingly grateful that he no longer had to suffer the torment of missing her as desperately as he knew he otherwise might, or the inconvenience of an inappropriate physical reaction to the thought of her. Unless he wanted one, he corrected himself, reaching down below the waistband of his pyjamas as he sought out the rapidly hardening evidence that she still inhabited the deepest recesses of his mind.

He slept soundly that night, and dreamed of her.

                                                                          ***

He always enjoyed the summer holidays. He rarely left Hogwarts for more than a night or two, unless it was for a potions conference. He did not count the weeks spent in Voldemort's company; that was different for it was not of his choice. Many of the other teachers sojourned far away from the school, either travelling or in their second homes, leading lives far removed from academia. He preferred to remain in the sanctuary of the castle, surrounded by his books and his bottles, his grimoires and his bell jars, cocooned in the safe haven that was the ancient stone and the solid foundations and the very bedrock of the castle, all steeped in deep magick. He neither required nor desired any other home.

When deserted for the summer, the endless corridors and eccentric staircases were even more alluring for a solitary soul such as Snape.  Unable to sleep and unwilling to rest, he would spend hours at a time pacing the empty cloisters and passageways, sometimes deep in thought, sometimes emptying his mind of everything save for the act of marking the seconds and the minutes of his life with each footfall. 

One particular night's calculations led him along a little-used first floor corridor where sconces were few and the best illumination came from a waning half-moon slanting through the windows to his left. Two strides took him into shadow, two more saw him silhouetted in the middle of a moonbeam; and so on, and so on. In, out, in, out, the rhythmic tapping of his boots on the cold stone flags and the beating of his own heart combining with the hypnotic tempo of the light and the dark and the light and the dark; in, out, in, out. Fingers slick with her, wanting her, wanting her. He stopped in his tracks, wondering where on earth that thought had come from.

There was a door, a few paces along. A small, unobtrusive door, quite unremarkable. He could just as easily have walked straight past it, but now that he had noticed it he could not pass it by without further investigation. The frown line etched into his brow deepened as he took several deliberate steps towards it, stopping before it with a sardonic huff as he saw the symbols carved in the oak.

"Hah! I might have known. The Room of Requirement," he muttered under his breath. "If I wasn't convinced of the sentience of this school, I would be certain Albus had a hand in this."

Raising an eyebrow sardonically as he turned to look up and down the corridor, he shook his head.

"Well then, let's see what it is you think I need!"

He reached out to grasp the door handle, but drew back his hand and sighed. He was completely self-sufficient, having all that he needed. He would never describe himself as a happy man, or even a contented one, but he lacked none of the basic necessities of life and so he had no idea what might lie in wait on the other side of the door. Finally, with a rueful shake of his head, he took the handle again, and turned it. The latch clicked, and the door creaked as he pushed it open.

He was in an empty room the size of a classroom, filled with more stone pillars than could possibly be needed to support the vaulted ceiling above. Cautiously, he withdrew his wand, for while he was quite sure he was alone it unsettled him that the entire room was not visible to him, and he knew better than to take unnecessary chances. Closing the door behind him, he advanced into the room, his way illuminated by a plethora of candles burning brightly in tall wrought iron candelabra spaced at regular intervals along all four walls. His disquiet grew as he reached the centre of the room to find nothing save for more of the same uniform stone columns, and he was about to turn on his heel in disgust when he noticed a large shadow flickering on the uneven floor. Stepping closer, he rounded a pillar and saw an ornate gilt frame, dulled with years of dust, standing even taller than he.

"Damn! What's this doing here? Albus hid it six years ago!"

Wonderingly, Snape approached the Mirror of Erised while a familiar fragrance filled the air.

The last time he had looked in the mirror, six years earlier, he had seen himself standing in shirt sleeves. His reflection had rolled up his left sleeve and presented his forearm to Snape's view. As he had watched, the ugly serpent and skull design of the Dark Mark had disappeared, the snake first eating away the skull and then beginning on its own tail, circling until it disappeared into nothing. Unblemished white skin had been left in its place, and his reflection had smiled a smile of such pure sweet joy that Snape had actually shed bitter tears and railed at it, banging his fists against the glass before turning and walking away, determined never to look into it again.

The Room of Requirement evidently had other ideas.

Steeling himself for the wave of twisted anguish he knew would soon break over him, he stepped up to the mirror, and stared into its depths. Out of the swirling mists walked a tall, dark figure with shoulder-length black hair and penetrating ebony eyes. So far, so good, thought Snape, folding his arms and waiting for the revelation to come. His reflection again rolled up his left sleeve, and presented his now pure, flawless forearm for inspection. As he did so, however, the air all around Snape grew thick with the scent of jasmine and as he watched, to his disbelief, a tiny infant child shimmered into the reflection's arms.

This was cruelty indeed. This was insupportable. Not only would he never be rid of the Dark Mark, but nor would he ever be able to know the joy of holding his child in his arms, of making his entire sorry existence mean something, for why would anyone ever care for _him_ enough to – and then there _she_ was, glimmering out of the greyness, coalescing at his side, smaller by a head than he, turning her face up to smile at him and placing her hand on his shoulder, caressing their child, turning a radiant smile from the reflection outwards, out of the glass and on to him as he stood gaping at her, his heart overflowing. 

_Ella._

He sat for hours staring into the Mirror of Erised, cross-legged on the floor with a pillar at his back, until the cold seeped into his bones and his legs were numbed by immobility. And the tableau before him gazed back out at him, constant in its communication of the hitherto unspoken truth; Ella Redemte was the deepest, most desperate desire of his heart.

The moon set, and the sun rose, and a voice spoke to him from the shadows.

"What do you see, Severus?"

The old man's voice was gentle, and Snape's cracked slightly as he answered,

"You know what I see, Albus. Have you been here all the time?"

"No, no, the room appeared for you, not me. I have had no part in this. When you did not appear at breakfast I simply asked Sir Cadogan to ascertain your whereabouts. I was directed to the corridor outside, and then once I came upon this door, I guessed that you were within."

"What shall I _do_? What _can_ I do, how can I ever trust myself again? I've become that which I most despise, a fool who wears his heart on his sleeve for all to see. Hah, what hope is there for me against the Dark Lord now, if not even an enhanced pensieve can help me control my emotions?"

"So, it is indeed Ella that you see in the Mirror."

"Of course it bloody is!" Snape snapped, resting his elbows on his knees and hiding his face in his hands for a moment as he rubbed his eyes before looking back up at her shade, still smiling at him. "Albus, she's all around me. I can see her, I can smell her, I can almost _touch_ her! How am I supposed to control this?"

The Headmaster stood before Snape now, his hands clasped, and he rocked on his heels slightly as he mused,

"Perhaps you set too great a store by your desire to control, my boy."

"Pah! What I desire is to – is to be rid of _wanting_ her! To – to – not smell jasmine with every thought of her. Albus, the room's full of it, can't you smell it?"

"No, not at all, and although I allow that my sense of smell is not as developed as yours, and my faculties are failing…It seems you might be somewhat of a synaesthete…"

Snape got to his feet and scoffed, brushing down his frock coat.

"No. No, this has never happened to me before. I do not hear colours, I do not assign shapes to sounds. This is different. Intrusive, uncalled for. Unwanted."

He folded his arms and glared into the mirror, and his stern face crumpled as another breathtaking smile returned his frown. He took a faltering step up to the glass and placed his hands up to it as Ella put her hands on his reflection's shoulders. For a moment, he was sure he could feel the contact and he caught his breath, but as he turned it was the Headmaster, patting his arm.

"Come on, old friend. It does not do to dwell on phantoms such as these. Far better to address reality, don't you agree?"

"Your meaning being?"

"You must find her, dear boy! Bring her home!"

"I – No. I can't!"

"Severus, you have admitted yourself that the pensieve is an inadequate vessel, that your feelings run too deep – "

"I'll get another! Albus, you can enchant one, you can – "

"Why so afraid? Come, come! She would be out of danger here, you know that. There is a _choice_ to be made, Severus! Why not follow a new path?"

"A new path that would lead where, exactly? To her ruin when she discovers what I am, and to mine when I lose her, and as for the war, _well_, I would cease to be of any use at all!"

"And in spite of all your protestations, the Mirror tells only the simple truth."

Snape's shoulders sagged and he took a last, desperate look into the mirror before turning abruptly and saying in clipped tones as he strode from the room,

"Then the choice is already made, isn't it? My weakness has put her at risk. If I'm summoned before I find her…I'll make the necessary preparations. I have no other option _now_, do I?"

The Headmaster followed, making a point to avert his gaze from the mirror and smiling to himself as he closed shut the door to the Room of Requirement behind him.

He sent one of the school's fastest owls to Beauxbatons Academy that same morning. His note to Madam Maxime was terse, and simply informed her that she was required to ensure that Miss Redemte remained within the school grounds until such time as he, Snape, came to escort her back to Hogwarts, and that the owl carrying the message required her immediate confirmation that she would comply. For the remainder of the day, he ensured that all preparations for the beginning of the new school year had been made, and in between made frequent visits to the pensieve on his desk, irritably ridding himself of disconcertingly persistent thoughts of his heart's desire.

He had not expected Madam Maxime's owled reply that afternoon to inform him of Ella's departure from her school the week before. He was aghast. The tone of the letter was guarded, he could tell, and he wished he could apparate directly to the Academy to interrogate the stupid woman personally. All that she would tell him was that Ella had returned to England and was to spend some time in London before returning to Beauxbatons for the start of the autumn term. 

Thrusting a piece of bacon rind left over from a hurried breakfast in his rooms into the beak of the exhausted bird, he shooed it out of his office window and stalked over to the pewter jar of Floo powder on the mantelpiece. Thrusting a pinch into the fire he called,

"Albus Dumbledore!" continuing as the spinning head slowed to a halt, "Albus, she's gone. To London, the Fates only know why! They've probably done it to spite me, it wouldn't be the first time!" he added bitterly. "Maxime's told me nothing, but I'm going to go to Diagon Alley to see if she's been there. I won't be coming back without her."

"Very well, Severus. Good luck."             

Diagon Alley was deserted by the time he arrived early that evening. All of the shops were closing as he stepped through the hidden passageway behind the Leaky Cauldron, and he strode impatiently along the usually bustling thoroughfare, glancing into side alleys and through darkened shop windows, cursing under his breath as shop owners gathered baskets of goods from their shop fronts and cast curious glances at him as they carried their wares inside for safekeeping until the morning. 

"Stupid bloody woman!" he spat in an undertone. "Why couldn't she have just stayed in France? And that wretched Headmistress could have been a little more helpful, it wouldn't have killed her to show a bit of common sense."

Feeling a little calmer for venting his spleen, he decided at last that any more searching that evening would prove fruitless. He returned to the Leaky Cauldron and took a room for the night, enquiring of Tom the barkeep whether or not a Miss Redemte, or a lady of her description, was lodging there. Answering in the negative, Tom did nevertheless suggest that there were one or two ladies fitting a similar physical description sitting at a corner table that evening, and that for a small fee he would be able to address them by whatever name he liked. 

Snape marshalled all the self control he was able in order to prevent himself from leaping over the bar to restrain Tom in a stranglehold against the wall of brightly coloured optics and forcibly prevent him from uttering any more such unspeakable insults. Instead, he said stiffly that he had no need of company and would be grateful if Tom could simply remove the cork from the bottle of claret behind the bar and use it to stopper his mouth for the remainder of the evening. Only when the bar was empty and closing for the night did Snape wend a weary path up the stairs to his room, to sleep and ready himself to resume his search the following day.

The Fates conspired against him once more, the following day. Having risen early in order to conduct a thorough shop-by-shop search if necessary, halfway through the morning he found himself waylaid in Knockturn Alley by a somewhat edgy Mr Borgin, who ushered him into the dark and musty confines of his shop in order to impress upon him his fears about the Ministry investigations into his business dealings with Lucius Malfoy. Mindful of the need to maintain his cover at all times, Snape pretended a modicum of interest and concern and tried to allay Mr Borgin's fears, but despite his best efforts he was still detained for well over an hour. 

When he emerged into the glare of the midday sun he was irritated beyond all measure and strode out into Diagon Alley scattering hapless wizards and witches in his wake like flotsam and jetsam buffeted by an angry tide. After a further unproductive hour or two, he found himself once more at the entrance to Knockturn Alley, and froze as he saw a familiar blond head disappear around a corner and out of sight. Sighing heavily and clenching his fists, mindful of Borgin's worries, he followed, but by the time he had reached the iron-clad door to the shop it had been locked and bolted and the grubby curtains that concealed the interior of the shop from view had been tightly drawn, leaving only the insalubrious contents of the shop window on display. Hearing nothing from within, Snape rapped on the door and muttered a few incantations, but the door was heavily warded and remained impervious to his efforts. Eventually he decided that Borgin would simply have to look out for himself, and so he took a short cut through a narrow passageway that twisted and turned but then gave out on to the farthest end of Diagon Alley, near to St Mungo's. He slowed his pace then, searching the faces of everyone he passed just in case he passed Ella without even noticing her. 

_As if that could happen, now_, he thought ruefully.

When he saw her, of course, she might as well have been double the size of Rubeus Hagrid for his awareness of her filled his senses and made all of the other denizens of the Alley disappear as surely as if he had used a Vanishing charm on everyone and everything in it.

_Ella._

Even from behind, he knew it could be no other. She was sitting at a small wrought iron table outside the ice cream parlour, Florian Fortescues, toying idly with a plate of some elaborate ice cream dessert. He could just make out her profile, and he noticed that she was gazing off into space – no, she was watching people come and go from Knockturn Alley. She appeared to be alone, however, and for that he was grateful as it would assure him an easy retrieval. 

Approaching her table with the soft tread for which he had become renowned amongst the errant students of Hogwarts School, he reached her side and forced a light note into his tone, although he feared that his feelings might still betray him.

"You never cease to surprise me," he commented dryly as he moved into her field of vision. "I would not have expected your…_tastes_… to extend to such a frivolous confection as that."

He looked down at the pool of pastel shades on her plate, their solidity and separateness melting and mingling under the ferocious power of the sun and mentally cursing himself for noting the analogy between the sundae and his emotions.

If he had taken her by surprise then she disguised it well, he noticed, as she replied lightly in a similar vein,

"I didn't think you were interested in my…._tastes_… Professor Snape."

He pulled out the chair opposite hers and sat down. It was of the same elaborate design as the table, too small and ridiculously uncomfortable.

"Do join me, won't you?" Ella said acidly, and he bristled slightly. She did not appear to be terribly pleased to see him, and he wondered how easily she would be persuaded to return to Hogwarts with him. He was suddenly reminded of her difficult attitude the day she returned his book, in his dungeon, and hurriedly decided that perhaps a little innocuous small talk would ease his passage.

"Have you been well?" he enquired politely.

"I have been busy," she countered.
    
    "That isn't what I asked."

She looked at him levelly, and refused once more to answer his question, saying instead,

"And you? What brings you here today?" 

It was not the right time to tell her that he had come to find her and return her to Hogwarts. He sensed that she would not take the news well.

"I had…business to attend to. Supplies to buy."

"You were following someone," she observed. His eyes flashed angrily. _Did she know _nothing_ of the circles in which he moved?_

"Don't be so indiscreet!" he hissed. "Anyone could be listening!"

She held his gaze impassively, and he sighed. This was not the way he had thought it would be. He leaned forward, speaking urgently in an undertone:

"I have taken a room at the Leaky Cauldron. Join me there in half an hour."

To his amazement, she simply laughed at him.

"What?" he asked, affronted and completely at a loss as to what he might have said to cause such amusement. Her next words, however, made everything crystal clear. 

"You must think I'm mad!" she said, incredulously. "I can remember the _last_ time I was alone with you! What on _earth_ makes you think I wish to repeat the experience?"

Of course. Seeing her again, for him, was the culmination of months of regret, of trying to forget, of realisation and acceptance. Ella, on the other hand, remembered only his cruelty and her confusion. He cursed himself yet again for the crassness of his behaviour, then and now, and he could not keep the sorrow from his voice as he urged her to listen.

 "Because this time, I can explain. Please."

And with that he stood, gave her a searching look, and left her alone. As much as he wanted to force her to go with him, he remembered something Albus Dumbledore always said.

_Caution catches the Hippogriff_. 

Then again, he mused as he strode back to the Leaky Cauldron, it could equally have been one of Hagrid's homilies…but either way, although he didn't much care for this analogy either, it had a grain of truth in it, and it was the best course of action his agitated mind could come up with at that moment. He was still frowning worriedly when his path was blocked by the sudden and altogether unwelcome appearance of Lucius Malfoy. The blond, richly dressed man had a hard gleam in his icy blue eyes that chilled Snape through as thoroughly as total immersion in an arctic sea. 

Malfoy wasted no time on pleasantries, bringing his face to within inches of Snape's as he hissed malevolently,

"If I didn't know better, Severus, I'd say you were following me…but I see you're here for another reason, aren't you?"

"I don't know what you mean, Lucius" Snape replied, struggling to school his features into their usual mask of impassivity before the older man noticed his discomposure. 

"The half-blood you were eating ice-cream with? How _cosy_ you both looked!" 

Snape tried, but judging from the triumphant smile that curled Malfoy's thin mouth he had been unable to stop his eyes widening with alarm. 

"She was employed at the school for a time last year, Lucius. That's all. I was merely being…polite."

"Of course, old boy, of course! Your manners _did_ appear to be absolutely impeccable!"

He looked Snape up and down with a sneer, adding,

"And there we all were, thinking you were such a cold fish! Well, well, well! I have to compliment you on your taste, Severus. She is rather fetching, for a halfblood." He leaned forward, dropping his voice conspiratorially. "You do intend to _share_, don't you?"

Snape balled his fists beneath his robes and raised an eyebrow noncommittally, not trusting himself to speak. Unfortunately Malfoy took this as assent and warmed rapidly to the theme. "I say, old man, how about it? Hmm? A little firebrand like that would be only too willing to do two men at the same time, don't you think? The three of us, with her as the filling in a – a Slytherin sandwich!" 

Malfoy was highly delighted with his quip, and his glacial eyes sparkled maliciously as he began to imagine the scene. Snape was about to explode, but before he could come up with a suitably anodyne retort, Malfoy had turned on his heel and disappeared into the crowd. Torn now between wanting to return to Ella's side in case Malfoy approached her, or leaving her alone to come to him of her own accord within the half hour he had specified, he decided on the latter course of action, and he returned to his room in the Leaky Cauldron to replay that afternoon's events over in his mind, and savour the memory of being in her company again at last.

Half an hour passed, and then several more half hours, and she did not come. Wilful, stubborn woman! He dared not go out and search for her once more, lest she come to his door and he not be there, so he sat in his room and stewed. At length, he descended to the bar and sat at the far end of the counter. Tom served him with a double measure of firewhisky and told him, when asked, that Miss Redemte had taken a room that very afternoon and had retired some considerable time earlier to dine in her room. Snarling his thanks, and asking for the number of her room, Snape finished his drink and refused the proffered refill, choosing instead to march purposefully up the stairs and along the winding corridor until he found her room. He was about to rap on the door and demand entry when he realised his forearm was tingling. Filled with dread, he realised that Malfoy could well have alerted the Dark Lord to Ella's existence by now, and she could be in danger. 

He ran back to his room and set out the pensieve, emptying his mind of everything save for those memories he needed to offer up to it, and he touched his wand to his temple to withdraw the thin silver threads one by one. When at last he had finished he sealed the pensieve with a few muttered incantations so that none of the memories could be lost, before concealing it in his robes and returning with desperate urgency to her door. 

No light leaked from under her door, so he presumed her to be asleep. Not wishing to startle her into wakefulness and then waste precious minutes explaining himself and trying to persuade her to let him in, he instead muttered 

"Alohomora!" and turned the handle with a soft click. 

"Who's there?" he heard her call tremulously. He stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

"It's me, Ella, don't be afraid and _don't scream!"_

"You don't scare me, Severus!" she retorted, with an animosity that made his stomach churn with worry. "What do you want?"

Why did she have to be so antagonistic? Just for once in his miserable life, he thought, it would not hurt the Fates to ease his passage a little.

"I don't have long, I must leave, but you're not safe here." He could not hide his agitation, and part of him even exulted in peeling back the layers of self-protection to lay himself bare before her, shielding nothing. He crossed over to her, drawn to her, and sat beside her on the bed, putting his hands on her shoulders, touching her again at last, oh, at last, letting the intensity of his gaze tell her all he wanted her to know.

"Listen to me, Ella, and listen carefully. You're in danger. I've had some intelligence – there's going to be Death Eater activity in London tonight." – _And Malfoy's noticed you_, he thought. "Albus has arranged for your fire here to be put on the Floo network for a few hours, and I have some Floo powder for you, use it as soon as I have gone, and go to Hogsmeade. From there, you must go to Hogwarts - Albus is expecting you, and you'll be safe there."

She argued, of course, and he cursed the fickle Fates for their surely unwarranted mischief.

"I'm due to return to Beauxbatons tomorrow! And I don't _want _to go back to Hogwarts!"

"For pity's sake, woman, do you have to be so stubborn?" he exploded. "Just do as I say!"

"Don't speak to me like I'm one of your students, _Professor_!" 

Why, oh why had he expected her simply to comply? He castigated himself for not realising by now that she had her own ideas, and always seemed to have the last word.

He sighed and ran his hair back from his face impatiently.

" Ella, I need to know you're safe!" he stressed urgently. _You don't know what Malfoy's capable of given half the chance, let alone Voldemort!_

"Why would _you_ care? You made your feelings quite clear the last time we met!"

"Oh, Ella, I wish I had time to explain to you!" he said earnestly, gripping her shoulders more tightly, noticing with a lurch in his abdomen the thin straps of her nightgown as they fell over his fingers. "It was all for you, my sweet, sweet love - "

The endearment spilled from his mouth before he had the chance to edit it to something less ridiculously saccharine, and deciding to ignore it he made the mistake of moving in to embrace her, his arms trembling with the need to enfold her in them. Ella, of course, had other ideas.

"Don't you dare call me that!" she screamed at him, pushing his hands from her shoulders and scrambling off the bed to stand before him, anger flashing in her eyes and the chilly air pebbling her nipples through the thin satiny fabric. His arm was burning now, and he knew he had little time left, and yet in spite of her lack of cooperation he still ached to claim her at last. 

"You have _no_ right to come in here and speak to me like that!"

His eyes filled with anguish as he fought against the irrational urge to throw himself at her feet, and instead he stood, fetching the pensieve from the table upon which he had laid it as he entered.

"Take this to Hogwarts, and use it there. Please. It will answer all your questions, and it may even make you think more kindly of me. But _please_, Ella, you _must_ do this! If I ever meant anything to you, _please_ promise me you'll go to Hogwarts! I can't protect you any more, they know too much!"

Unbidden and unstoppable tears filled his eyes as he stood before her, and they appeared to reach deeply inside her in a way that his words had summarily failed to do. In a small, shocked voice, she said,

"Alright," and his stricken face creased with relief as he took her in his arms at last and kissed her. He held her to him and exulted in the relief of it, after night after night of longing and the desperate knowledge that this could easily be the last time he ever held her. The Dark Mark's call grew more impatient with every minute of resistance and he had always known that each summons to Voldemort's side could be his last. She struggled against him at first, but he could not let her go and eventually she melted into him, returning his embrace ardently, letting him into the warm cavern of her mouth, kissing him as hungrily as he did her, running her hands through his hair and making him shiver with pleasure. She was real, she was in his arms, and she wanted him as much as he wanted her. 

He loved her. He had loved her all along, he knew that now. Even if the Mirror of Erised had not forced him to open his eyes and free his heart from his imprisonment of it these long years, the sight and the feel and the taste of her now assured him of all that he needed to know. 

The fiery prickle of the Dark Mark on his arm grew more insistent and difficult to withstand, and he felt a wave of nausea wash over him. Letting go of her, relinquishing her lips and depriving himself of her intoxicating taste, he forced himself to pull away from her and said,

"I have to go! Ella, I-I love you!" his voice cracking with the admission that he no longer wanted to bite back. 

He threw some Floo powder into the fire and muttered a spell that would floo him untraceably to the Dark Lord. Turning to give Ella one last scorching look, he stepped in to the fire and stared into her eyes as he fell backwards, stomach first, into the green flames of the Floo network. 

                                                                 ***

Please review.

~RF~


	9. Abomination

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

I would like to thank everyone who is reading this story. I hope you are enjoying it as much as I enjoy writing it!

This chapter is rather darker than recent chapters, so I think it only fair to warn you!

****

****

****

**Chapter 9**

**Abomination**

****

The tardiness of their arrival in the Great Hall for dinner did not go unnoticed. The absence of two members of what was a party of fewer than two dozen remaining at the school for the summer was too noticeable. Naturally enough, Ella and Severus blamed their infant daughter for their delay, but their still-damp hair and the secret smiles spilling over from their eyes as they glanced at one another told a far different story. They were still deliciously aware of one another's bodies and remembered well the sensation of wet skin sliding and slipping on wet skin in their luxurious bathtub.

Once dinner was over, the group splintered off into smaller factions, making their separate ways to all corners of the castle to spend the few hours before bed following their own pursuits. Severus and his family found themselves strolling through the corridors with Caius, and by unspoken agreement they ended up in the staff room. Conversation at dinner had been easy, and had centred on Caius' forthcoming trip and his previous adventures in the Emerald Isle. Now, after several generous goblets of claret, Caius was in the mood to reminisce, and so Severus sat back on a deep, sagging sofa nursing a post-prandial snifter of fine cognac, his long lean legs stretched out before him on the hearth rug and crossed at the ankle. His arm was holding his wife, who sat beside him with her legs curled under her, leaning into him and warming his heart as she in turn absorbed the warmth of his body. 

Severus was far more relaxed than he had been two hours earlier, Ella knew, and he had needed to escape from his memories. Now that the floodgates of recollection had been opened they could not be closed again against the tide of thought and opinion and emotion that raged through him. But while she was more than willing to be his confessor, be everything to him, she feared for his frame of mind. He had still not told her what she most dreaded to hear, either, which was not with regard to her parents but was exactly what Voldemort had made him suffer. The pain of their separations and the losses of him were still fresh in her mind, and Voldemort's continuing liberty was a constant threat. Every day she offered fervent thanks to the Fates for allowing her to succeed in removing his Dark Mark. At least now, she reasoned, she could persuade him to stay safe, at Hogwarts, with her.

Before long, Caius had wandered off to the farthest corner of the staff room in search of another bottle of claret from one of the cupboards there, and Ella took advantage of the few moments of privacy it afforded them to embrace her husband and nuzzle his cheek and hair. She knew it should be easier for her to resist his physical pull on her by now, but still she found him utterly irresistible and she revelled in his languid acquiescence, covering his face with light kisses and moulding her body to his.

"Mmm, oh, love," he murmured suggestively as he returned her kisses, his smouldering, hooded eyes devouring her. "Shall we…retire?"

"It seems a little rude," Ella replied, sucking gently on his lower lip and hearing the low clink of crystal on oak as he set down his glass on the side table next to the sofa. "We've only just got here…"

Severus now had two hands with which to embrace and caress his wife, and he began to run his long fingers along her spine and then trailed one hand up under the full, heavy curve of her breasts.

"Don't worry about _him_," he whispered with a smirk. "He won't even notice we've gone, he'll just keep on talking to an empty room…"

"Don't be so mean! Oh, _Severus_…" 

"He'll talk all night, I'm warning you!" he said, pulling back a little to raise a knowing brow at his protesting wife to illustrate his words. "Ah, too late," he tutted as Caius returned with his prize and flopped into the old armchair before the fire.

"Here we are!" he beamed happily, all flushed cheeks and ebullient bonhomie.

"…And here we go…" muttered Severus in an undertone.

"Have I ever told you, Ella, what Sev and I used to get up to when we were kids?"

"What do you mean, 'what _we_ used to get up to'?" Severus grumbled.

"A little," smiled Ella warmly, resting a loving hand on her husband's knee and leaning into him again. "But I'm sure there's more!"

Severus exhaled deeply and slumped further down in his seat.

"Wake me up when he pauses for breath, will you?"

Caius could, indeed, have talked all night. The bottle of claret was empty in no time, and he and Ella were laughing about the occasion when an eleven year old Caius had unwittingly evacuated Madam Malkin's Robes For All Occasions by waving his brand new Ollivander's wand rather injudiciously while reciting, incorrectly, a spell he had overheard his elder brother use on one of his favourite shirts. Far from turning all the school robes in the shop from black to white, which in itself would have been sufficient to incur his mother's wrath, the misremembered incantation had caused several small, localised fires and the resultant panic in the crowded emporium had resulted in four minor injuries, three panic attacks and one theft.

Severus' fingers were restless around Ella's waist, and his thumb stroked the curve of her hip. She turned to smile at her husband fondly. His eyes were closed and his head rested against the back of the sofa, a small smile threatening to curl the side of his lip. Then Caius said out of the blue,

"Hey, Sev! Remember that spooky Muggle funfair?"

Severus' eyes snapped open and he stared straight ahead, unblinking, then lifted his head and turned his gaze on Ella, showing fear, confusion, hurt and shame. Her eyes widened in mute horror as she made the connection between the childhood memory and Voldemort, and she saw the steel shutters come down over his eyes until he wore a cold, impenetrable mask.

Ella was vaguely aware of an oblivious Caius droning on in the background, his voice seeming to come from far away, but gradually his words penetrated her consciousness.

"…of course, Mother was furious afterwards…she hadn't intended that we…"

Never taking her eyes from her husband's face, Ella said numbly,

"Caius, I'm sorry but it's time we said goodnight."

****

As soon as she could once they were safe in the sanctuary of their rooms, she went to her beloved's side, cradling his immovable, shuttered body in her arms.

"Tell me, love! Oh, Severus, my love, tell me!"

                       **************************************************

He had been just nine years old when it had happened. A faulty Portkey, the cause of a trauma that would last a lifetime. His mother had been returning with Severus and Caius to their family seat after a short family holiday, but the usual feeling of disorientation had quickly given way to terror when the young Severus had realised that he and his brother were unexpectedly alone in a dark, alien place, with no sign of their mother. Holding tight to his young brother's hand and complaining at the unconcern of the three year old Caius, Severus shrank against the wall behind him, starting in surprise when he realised it lacked the solidity he had expected. 

It was dark, very dark, and the grinding drone of machinery was deafening to young ears more accustomed to studious silence. He made a half turn, reaching out to the wall with his free hand and touching it to find that it was made of a thick weatherproof fabric and was tethered with ropes and pegs to the muddy grass underfoot. To his other side was a huge white metal wall, raised two or three feet off he floor by means of a set of wheels the size of Caius. A Muggle vehicle of some sort, he realised to his horror. 

Where were they, and more to the point, where was his mother and why had she taken them there and left them?

The only way forward appeared to be up a steep grey ramp that led directly into the vehicle. Caius was pulling him by the hand, keen to explore, but his more wary elder brother was unwilling to move at all.

"Mother?" he quavered, his piping voice indistinct when pitted against the generator noise all around them. "Mother, where are you?"

There was no answer, and he set his pale young face into a determined frown and took a few steps forward. Thus encouraged, Caius dragged him onwards, to the top of the ramp, and through the heavy black curtain that concealed what lay beyond.

"Is Mummy in here, Sevvus?" asked Caius with buoyant curiosity, still holding his brother's hand.

"No, I don't think so…maybe she's waiting for us outside whatever this place is. We need to find a way out."

"Alwight then Sevvus. Let's go over here! Come on! I want to go _this_ way!"

They passed several towering wooden structures, painted to resemble buildings and forest scenes of various types, weaving in and out of them in their search for daylight and a possible exit. 

To Severus' nine year old mind, hours seemed to pass, although he would look back from the relatively safe distance of adulthood and accept that their ordeal could not feasibly have lasted for more than a quarter of an hour. An intelligent and analytical child, he was nevertheless a child and subject to the same night terrors and lurid flights of fancy of many children his age. 

Thus it was that when a sudden upsurge of power and shifting of gears illuminated everything around them in fluorescence, and screaming disembodied laughter came at them from all directions, Severus though that he would surely die of fright. That was assuming the incorporeal monsters didn't kill him first, of course. There were monsters there, he was sure of that, and so when the harshly lit and brightly coloured props surrounding them began to move of their own accord he screamed long and hard, scouring his throat until his voice gave out and his opened mouth could only gasp at his little brother to stay there, not to move, not to leave him on his own.

Black light had reminded him, ever since. Ever since his mother and father had appeared moments later, scooping a laughing, heedless Caius up into their arms while their eldest son stood mute and shaking with black eyes wide as saucers. Ever since he had seen the impatience and disappointment in his father's eyes at his son and heir's evident lack of stoicism in the face of unknown danger.

With adulthood came the knowledge, albeit received too late, that there were, indeed, monsters. Attracted to the charismatic Tom Riddle, or self-styled Lord Voldemort, it had been all too easy to allow the older Lucius Malfoy to persuade him that pledging allegiance to Riddle would open up a whole new world of knowledge and the opportunities to put it into practice. Disillusioned at the consistent failure of his best academic efforts to win the approval of his stern authoritarian father, and flattered at the attention paid by the older men, who seemed to appreciate his hunger for knowledge and thirst for perfection, he had been only too eager to accept the branding of the skull-and-serpent insignia into the tender young flesh of his forearm, and everything that he believed it to represent. He had spent his school years immersing himself in the study of dark magic, and his quest for more knowledge was insatiable.

Voldemort's power waxed, and his abuse of it matched it step for step. For every piece of dark magic Snape learned, he soon found that Voldemort would exact a payment. He was a master of manipulation, a powerful dark wizard with a cruelty that was unsurpassed, and his ability to hold his coterie of Death Eaters in thrall was incomparable.

Snape had exulted in his freedom at first. To escape from the constant reminder of his filial shortcomings and the unwanted responsibility of protector for his foolhardy, careless young brother had been liberating and exhilarating, and he had willingly turned a blind eye to his fellow Death Eaters' Muggle baiting. And the opportunity to brew and simmer, to create and adapt, to bottle and steam, was irresistible.

There came a point, in Voldemort's rise, where Snape could no longer pretend he remained a moral man.

Voldemort had found a new way to indulge himself. Several new ways, in fact. He had grown in arcane power and had found the means to reach into the minds of men and pluck from their psyches one single memory with which to torment and control them while at the same time assure them of his supremacy over them. 

For Snape, it was a Muggle funfair ride, a mistake, an accident, a terror of abandonment and faceless demons, an awareness of disappointment and unworthiness, an insecurity and overwhelming bitterness and undeservedness. No matter where Voldemort chose for his headquarters, no matter what meeting-place was used, Snape always found himself in a cavernous room filled with the grinding of unseen machinery and lurid moving mannequins with leering faces and jeering laughter. He neither knew nor cared what the others saw, but he imagined that the terror on their faces was, for the most part, reflected on his own.

He never lost the horror he felt each time he was summoned to Voldemort's side, but he did learn to mask it remarkably well. He wondered whether this was partially responsible for Voldemort singling him out for _special treatment_, although he did not flatter himself that he was alone in receiving such intimate attentions. And he certainly did not see it as a validation of his perverse attractiveness.

Sex was simply another word for power. And Voldemort lived for power.

Later, years later after it was all over, when James and Lily were long dead and Dumbledore had blessed him with a new life at a high price that was nevertheless well worth the paying, he had gone back to Voldemort, this time at Dumbledore's behest. The Dark Lord had a new body and a new lease of life but the same old prejudices and predilections remained and the years of weakness and exile had not dimmed his venom or reduced his manipulative abilities.

The instinctual shielding of his thoughts from his erstwhile Master was reinforced now with months of training in Occlumency, at which Snape discovered he was a natural, and its related skill of Legilimency which Snape seized upon with alacrity as a means of increasing his authority with the dunderheads who populated Hogwarts School during term time.

Snape needed every skill, every talent and every ounce of courage he possessed the first time he went back to his Master. Fortunately, the return of his favourite to the fold was sufficient sop to Voldemort's vanity to allow him to 'overlook' Snape's desertion, and only a few hours of flogging and Cruciatus were required for him to be satisfied once more of his servant's sincerity. Snape had steeled himself against the physical torture, but the mental torment was more difficult to bear and his regular nightmares had become even more terrifying than before. All of his childhood insecurities, so much a part of his psyche for all of his life, had been flayed bare once again, old scars reopened and made raw. Once more he faced the funfair and all its terrors with every Death Eater meeting, and once more the revolting obeisances were made to the now hideously deformed fairground freak master.

                                                                             ****

Voldemort remained convinced of Snape's loyalty for several years, although the constant backbiting and jostling for position amongst the higher ranks of the Death Eaters meant that Snape would never know from one meeting to the next whether or not his true role would be suspected and acted upon, and as the Dark Lord's power grew the risk Snape took grew ever more severe.

As soon as he saw Lucius Malfoy in Diagon Alley he knew that surely now the game was nearly up. However, he could not ignore the insistent summons of the Dark Mark, and when he left Ella alone and shocked in her room at the Leaky Cauldron he knew that their kiss might be the last they would ever share. All that he could do was to hope that the Fates would deliver her speedily to Dumbledore, and safety. He had done all that he could. And he had more motivation than ever before to try to stay alive. Unfortunate for him that Voldemort had soon realised that, too.

He ran through the dank, dark tunnels as quickly as he could, slipping and sliding, bouncing off the narrow glistening walls, knowing he would incur the Dark Lord's displeasure if he were to keep him waiting any longer. Skidding to a halt immediately before the tunnel opened out into the garish facsimile of his thirty-odd year dread, he straightened his robes and tossed his hair, his face assuming its mask of impassivity as he endeavoured to empty his mind of all thought. He crossed the room towards the atrocity sitting on the throne in the required number of long strides before throwing himself forward on to the floor and crawling the rest of the way on his belly, his cheeks tickled by the long thick blades of grass that only sparsely populated their packed-mud home. _Nice touch, getting the floor right as well_, Snape thought grimly, closing off his mind as he felt icy tendrils of Voldemort's consciousness reaching out in an effort to read him.

"Ah, Severus, dearest Severus," came the hissing whisper. "Come closer, my darling…let me…_smell_ you…"

"You honour me, Master," answered Snape before setting his mouth in a thin line and inching closer.

"Rise…rise for me, Severusss"

Snape slowly got to his knees, keeping his head bowed until yellowed, taloned fingers scraped under his chin in a foetid caress, almost piercing the skin as they pressed underneath, forcing his gaze upwards. Black eyes met red slits, and Snape tried to keep steady both his breathing and his resolve, the kiss he had shared with Ella so persistently memorable that he could almost feel her in his arms still. _If anything should happen to_ – 

"Have the mandrakes been troubling you again, dearest?"

"My lord?"

"I smell jasmine, Severus. I sense that it surrounds you. Were there not mandrakes at Hogwarts, growing alongside jasmine? Or were you, perhaps, hiding something from me? Something that you hide from me still?"

"Master, I fear I don't know what you –"

"Crucio!"

Snape's back arched as searing needles of pain stabbed into every nerve in his body, but Voldemort's tightening grip on his chin, sending trickles of warm, coppery blood running down either side of his neck, prevented him from falling to the floor.

"You dissemble, _dearest_! There is a woman…I can smell the sharpness of your lust for her and hers for you." He ran a weeping, cracking finger along Snape's cheek and into the corner of his mouth, forcing it in and scraping around his tongue until Snape had to fight the urge to gag. Then he removed it slowly, and held it up to examine it, slick with Snape's saliva. "And now I shall taste her…" he mused, inserting his finger into his own mouth with a sickening squelching sucking.

"She is unimportant, Master, that is why I - "

"Silence!"

Snape felt his balls constrict as a nauseatingly light touch drifted across the front of his trousers.

"Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance?" Voldemort lilted, before lunging forward and, belying his fragile appearance, grabbing Snape in a grip so hard that Snape grunted in pain, his eyes bulging. "Crucio!"

This time the pain of the curse had a definite centre, and Snape saw silver stars twinkling their way across his suddenly blurred vision as the agonising burning in his genitals blossomed until it spread in waves like gooseflesh and his entire body complained of the agony. 

Voldemort laughed shrilly, before growing serious. 

"No distractions, dearest. I command your full loyalty and your unswerving support. There is much to be done!"

"Of course, my lord."

"So, then, who was she?"

"A half-blood, Master, a passing fancy, a trifle…unimportant."

"It is…_enticing_…to know that you still have it in you, Severus. Tell me, have you inserted your …_aahhh_…delicious manhood into her fragrant cunt yet?"

"My interest falls far short of such things, my lord, as you are aware."

"Pity…your coupling with her would be a diversion, indeed…"

Snape inclined his head respectfully and fought to control his emotions as Voldemort fondled him insistently.

"My lord, surely you can't just allow him to get away with this disloyalty?"

The whining, wheedling voice was even more familiar to him than was its son's. The only surprise for Snape was that the dissenting voice did not belong to Wormtail. Malfoy was approaching the throne, almost wringing his hands in his disbelief, Snape noted with disgust. 

"Crucio!" This time it was Malfoy's turn to writhe in pain. "You know better than to interrupt, or to question my judgement!"

"Yes, my lord," Malfoy gasped, his eyes screwed shut as he forced out his apologies.

Snape was not dismissed from the Dark Lord's side until a few days later. He had been charged with a mission of the utmost importance to Voldemort and so dared not return to Hogwarts. There was, indeed, much to be done, but on Albus Dumbledore's behalf, and Snape had to be content with ascertaining via owl post that Ella was safely ensconced at Hogwarts. And he feared that Malfoy would seek to exact his revenge on Snape, and needed no more ammunition or motive than he already had.

Please review.

****

****

****

****

****

****

****

****

****

****

****

****

****

****

****

****

****

****

****

****

****


	10. Termination

**Ch10**

**Termination**

They slept late, and after Ella woke to feed Persephone she returned to her husband, whose slumber was so deep that he had not even noticed her absence, snuggling back into his arms and sleeping until the sun blazed high in the sky.

They decided to spend an hour or two underneath the ancient oak tree beyond the rose walk. Ella pushed Persephone, who was shaded against the searing glare of the late August sun by a large white parasol that hovered above her, while Severus walked alongside deep in thought. Casting sidelong glances at her husband, Ella knew better than to press him to carry on before he was ready, settling instead for reaching out for his hand. He interlaced his long fingers with hers and let out a heavy sigh.

"Do you remember our first picnic?" he mused.

"Of course! It was a blisteringly hot day, just like today…_you_ were even 'hotter'!" she teased.

He released her hand and slipped his arm around her waist instead as he leaned in to plant a lingering kiss on the top of her head. "Especially when you flew me home afterwards!" she continued. 

"Hah, yes, that broomstick ride was very enjoyable," he smirked. "Amazing, how I was able to terrify you and arouse you at the same time!"

"It's a particular talent of yours," she replied dryly. "You were punishing me for inviting Hermione and Remus along, weren't you?"

"Perhaps." He fell silent for a while, and then continued, "I think that was the first time I could accept being in the company of other people, when I was with you. It became a little less intolerable after that."

"And just look at you now! A party animal!"

"I hardly think so," he replied coolly. "I would prefer to leave _that_ particular epithet to the unfortunate Professor Lockhart."

Ella snorted in amusement and leaned against him as they walked, resting her head against his shoulder.

A short while later the newlyweds had spread out a tartan blanket underneath the aged oak tree, and were flat on their backs side by side, staring up through its branches with their emerald filter of gently dappling leaves, in languid contemplation of the sapphire sky. Ella shifted until she was lying on her side, propped up on one elbow. She ran her hand underneath her husband's newly untucked linen shirt, the informality of his dress a grudging concession to the persuasive powers both of the weather and of his wife, and caressed his chest with its smattering of soft dark hair. She closed her eyes for a few moments in appreciation of the different textures of him under her questing fingertips, and sighed happily as his flat nipples hardened to small nubs under her touch. Opening her eyes to find herself under intense scrutiny, she smiled,

"What?"

"You…"

"What about me?"

"Everything. Absolutely everything."

His hand pressed into the small of her back and the gentlest of pressure pulled her to him. Her hair fell around his face like a curtain of scented silk, and she covered his mouth with hers, letting the tip of her tongue flick against his before they began their intricate tender dance. At last, she withdrew a little, planting gentle teasing kisses on his pliant lips as she said,

"Mmm…I could do this…all day…but we really should…make the most of …mmm…"

He wrapped his arms around her and flipped her over then, parting her legs with the pressure of his thigh, deepening their embrace and effectively pinning her beneath him.                  

On reflection, Ella decided that Severus really should be allowed to resume his account in his own good time, and so it was that Persephone had awoken before they could be parted.

                         ****************************************************

Snape had spent the weeks after Ella's safe return to Hogwarts on a mission to various Mediterranean countries to corral more support for Voldemort from those who had been known sympathisers in the Dark Lord's heyday. Voldemort required renewed affirmations of loyalty, and while hired thugs such as Crabbe and Goyle had their uses, a more refined approach worked best with the more noble of the pureblood families. Snape was renowned for his particular way with words, a sophisticated menace that implied terrible penalties to be paid by those who would prevaricate.

He undertook his work only half-heartedly. Some families would ward their doors when they heard of his impending arrival. These he would attempt to break, putting on a convincing show of grim determination and threatening displeasure, but he would give up quickly and leave with a lightness in his step at the thought of one less family prepared to support the Dark Lord. 

Other families would allow him entry with fearful looks and obviously wavering loyalties. Depending on their lineage and the likelihood of any show of consideration on his part blowing his cover, he would either leave them be, and send an owl to Albus Dumbledore suggesting a possible new source of support for their own cause, or he would give them some manifestation of power and use all the means at his disposal to intimidate them into pledging their allegiance to the dark. 

These latter confrontations would leave him sick to his stomach and he would wend his way back to his lodgings with a heavy heart, hoping against hope that he would not ultimately be responsible for more suffering. He would then send an owl to Voldemort to inform him, with the right mixture of pride and sycophancy, of more conscripts to be added to his magical army, to be drafted when the time came.

He was uneasy, in view of Voldemort's discovery of his attraction to Ella, at being so far removed from the Inner Circle at this time. While he had no desire to be in the Dark Lord's company, he knew that his absence would be a boon to the likes of Malfoy and Lestrange, who would seize every opportunity they could to plant seeds of doubt about Snape's loyalty. 

He yearned for Ella, and Hogwarts. He hated to be away from his home, his routine. He lay in a series of rooms, always differently furnished, on a series of beds, always with different views through the windows, and his thoughts were always the same. He looked out over azure seascapes and terracotta rooftops, but he missed the morose crags and the lake visible through diamond-leaded panes. He slumbered in roughly plastered, balconied rooms with frescoed ceilings, but he missed the carvings on his antique bed and the sombre tapestries and portraits that oversaw his sleep. He missed the ordered clutter of his office, the soothing stones of the school, the continuity all around him, the safety. 

And most of all he missed the one thing he had never had, and had never thought he would know how to miss. He missed a woman. Ella. His Ella. He did not even know whether or not she _was_ his Ella, even though she had responded to his kiss with a desperation that had matched his own. He could still see the fire that burned in her eyes as they broke apart, but that scorching look had sparked in the heat of the moment and he craved the reassurance that she had not had a change of heart as the weeks had passed and her passion had cooled. He was and would always be unworthy of her love anyway, as the dissenting voice in his head seemed to delight in reminding him.

But he missed the promise of her, the scent of her, the taste of her, the soft, pliant warmth of her body pressed to his, and the expectation of more, so much more than he had ever dreamed, if only he could see her again. 

And therein lay the rub. His thoughts were always dragged back to Malfoy, and Wormtail, and Lestrange, and their exclusive access to Voldemort's ear in his exile. He feared that the next visit to his supposed Master would be his last, and he prayed to the Fates that circumstances would allow him to be with Ella again before the call came.

The Fates, notoriously fickle and rarely on his side, denied him his wish, and the last summons came several weeks after Snape had sent Ella to Hogwarts. He had endeavoured to discover as much as he could about Voldemort's plans, but his prolonged sojourn abroad had given him a sneaking suspicion that he was not privy to some master plan that he sensed involved him somehow. His fears were confirmed soon after his arrival. 

The perfidious Wormtail had approached him from behind just after Voldemort had dismissed him to the far side of the room, to partake of the usual feast laid out for the Inner Circle. The debriefing had gone well; despite Snape's deliberately limited success at converting frightened wizards and witches back to the Dark Lord, Voldemort was in good spirits. Malfoy appeared somewhat resentful of Snape's welcome, and was obviously working with Wormtail for he had cornered Snape at the farthest end of the cavern and begun to engage him in meaningless small talk when Wormtail sidled up to him and suddenly injected him with what could have been a lethal dose of Veritaserum. 

Despite the cumulative effect of the regular doses of antidote that Snape had been taking for years, he was still unable to conceal the truth when asked directly by a sneering Malfoy,

"What did you do with the half-blood?"

"I sent her to Dumbledore…"

"Why Dumbledore?"

"He'll keep her safe."

"Why do you say that?"

"I trust him…"

Malfoy had hissed his satisfaction and, after waiting for Voldemort to complete his systematic punishment of Pettigrew for administering the drug to his favourite plaything without first seeking permission, dared to step over Wormtail's prone, quivering form in order to approach his master with the news that perhaps Pettigrew had, in fact, acted in his lord's best interests.

Voldemort had acted swiftly. Prostrate on the ground again, Snape had been told to kneel before his lord once more, and for the second time that evening Voldemort had stroked his hair and sighed over him with the lasciviousness of the aged impotent. Then, after enduring several more minutes of these sickening ministrations, Voldemort had thrown Snape to the ground and stood, steadying himself for a moment with the arms of his throne but nevertheless presenting a terrifyingly potent appearance. Malfoy had appeared at his shoulder with a smirk, triumph and delight at Snape's fall from grace evident in his cold blue eyes.

"It appears, Severus my sweet, that we might have had a spy in our midst for a goodly long time," Voldemort announced, reaching out his withered right arm so that Malfoy could take the parchment-covered hand and raise it to his lips for a respectful, fawning kiss. Snape met Malfoy's gaze with disgust, but saw no sign of any revulsion. Malfoy was getting very good at dissembling, he thought.

"Lucius here has been _so_ busy, toiling away, grubbing around for clues…haven't you, my pet?"

"It has been my greatest pleasure, my lord," came the smooth reply.

"And, furthermore, it would seem that he was acting with the most selfless of interests! Ah, Lucius, however shall I make it up to you, my beauty?"

"Your estimation is all I crave, Master."

"Why don't you tell Severus what you have unearthed?"

With a smirk, Malfoy swaggered around Snape until he stood at his right shoulder before saying conspiratorially in a stage whisper,

"A little owl told me that you find that feisty little librarian to be more than a mere trifle, old boy! What say you to that? Hmm?"

"I don't know what you mean, Malfoy," Snape growled.

"Then I shall endeavour to enlighten you. Dumbledore's oaf of a groundskeeper fancies himself in love with the Giantess they have running Beauxbatons. Did you know that, hmm?"

"Your point?"

"Well, he really ought to learn a little discretion, don't you think? Tsk, tsk, telling his dearest Olympe that the fearsome Potions master was so desperately in love with the little half-blood that he had to save her from the evil Lord Voldemort's clutches, no matter the cost to his own _delicate position_?"

"What do you suppose that _delicate position_ might be, dearest?" came Voldemort's cold, high voice.

"Master, rest assured that I have no idea what Malfoy is implying."

"Silence! Wormtail obviously administered too little of the Veritaserum. Wormtail! Get more, immediately. I fear Severus needs to bare his soul…"

The interrogation was thorough. Snape was bound magically to remain on his knees before the throne, and Voldemort glided around him, trailing his arthritic talons through Snape's long black locks and alternating these caresses with frequent bursts of Cruciatus. The questioning examined the history of his relationship with and feelings for Ella Redemte, and Snape could not understand why this appeared to be so important to Voldemort at first, for while he feigned a twisted jealousy, Snape knew better than to suppose such feelings were representative of a genuine regard. He eventually concluded that by forcing Snape to confess all, Voldemort would at last arrive at the true reason for Ella's removal to Hogwarts; the full extent of Snape's esteem for Albus Dumbledore, and its natural obverse, his contempt for Voldemort.

By the time the interrogation was over, Snape's nose and ears were bleeding with the after-effects of the Unforgivable curse, and Voldemort's pouting disappointment was tempered with a shrill, disturbing glee at Snape's use of the anti-arousal potion with which he had driven Ella away. Snape had seen these moods before, and knew that worse was to follow. He did not for one moment envisage that Voldemort would choose the method he did, however. He fully expected to be raped repeatedly, forced to accept Death Eater after Death Eater into his body via more than one orifice at a time, culminating perhaps in the gangrenous, stinking member of the Dark Lord himself. And then he expected death. Slow, painful, lingering death, followed by the ceremonial impaling of his bloodied head on a railing on Hogwarts' perimeter wall.

What happened instead filled him with despair. Voldemort sent Wormtail off to his private stores, stores which Snape himself had built up and maintained years before, to retrieve a selection of potions including one whose constituent parts bore a very strong similarity to the anti-arousal potion. The Dark Lord then involved Snape in the manner of his own demise by insisting he identify the various bottles and vials Wormtail had produced, and comment on the many different effects that could be created in their careful combination. This surprisingly subtle phase of his torture lasted for hours, until Snape's legs and back were cramped and then numbed with inactivity, and his head was swimming with the emotions he no longer had the strength, or indeed the requirement, to conceal.

At last, Snape gave Voldemort the answer he had wanted. The particular combination of potions and incantations, with the anti-arousal basic compound used as a starting point, that would produce a poison to be injected directly into the Dark Mark on Snape's forearm and would result in an irreversible creeping paralysis and subsequent death. Once administered, by Voldemort himself, of course, Snape would be sent back to Hogwarts to die in front of his helpless, hopeless friends. There would be an amusing symmetry to it, since the very same potion Snape used to try to save Ella and himself would result in their destruction. 

Expected to plead for mercy and kiss his master's feet, Snape decided that there was little point in keeping up the pretence. He assumed his habitual mask of impassivity, showing neither fear nor open defiance, knowing that neither would profit him or secure his release. Rationally, scientifically, he could see no way out, and emotionally he knew that acceptance of his fate would at least allow him the luxury of seeing both his home and Ella again before he died.

His stoicism, although befitting his reputation, was not well received. Surrounded by jeering Death Eaters he knelt in the centre of the circle they formed, awaiting his Lord's displeasure. Gliding silently around him, Voldemort only spoke when finally he took Snape's arm in order to administer the poison.

"Sweet Severus, I doubt I shall ever recover from the disappointment…do you recall those wild days of our youth, when I joined with you so intimately and you cried out so…_winsomely_…ah, how I long to feel your tightness once more, just _once_ before you die this most painful, lingering , _deserved_ death…but alas, I doubt that even the soft wetness of your lips around me as I thrust into your throat would arouse my incapable appendage now, tempting as you are, _dearest_ boy…"

Snape endured the grotesque pretence at intimacy with impassivity, and the now silent Death Eaters witnessing the tableau watched avidly. Some, he noticed, were stroking themselves assiduously through, or in some cases under, their robes. Death was as powerful an aphrodisiac as power in some circles, he thought with disgust. 

Voldemort pressed the opened end of the small vial of poison to Snape's arm so that it covered the mouth of the skull of the Dark Mark. After intoning a series of incantations that Snape knew were the apotheoses of dark magic, Voldemort purred,

"Drink, my sweet, this draught of death as your final service to me…"

Snape looked down at the Mark to see the skull's shape alter rhythmically as it gulped down the cloudy grey liquid before allowing the serpent to slide back into its position in its mouth once the vial was empty. All at once, the whole of his arm that was in the vicinity of the Dark Mark grew cold, as if the flesh had been replaced with ice, and the Dark Lord dropped his arm and turned away, gliding back to his throne with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"Get rid of him. Make sure you leave him somewhere he can be found. I want the sentimental old fool to know the manner of his spy's demise."

"It will be my utmost pleasure, my Lord!" exclaimed Lucius Malfoy obsequiously, reaching Snape in a few easy strides and pulling him to his feet whilst motioning impatiently for the dull-witted Crabbe and Goyle to accompany him. Snape shrugged off Malfoy's restraining grip with a fierce glare, and strode off in the direction of the exit tunnel. This would be the last time he would endure the black light, that much was certain. He tried not to think about how many other things he was to experience for the last time. There would be opportunity enough for that later when Malfoy had left him alone with his thoughts.

                                                                        ***

They apparated to a hillside just above Hogsmeade village. It was dusk, and Lucius Malfoy grabbed Snape's arm again and dragged him around the back of a dilapidated old building that Snape recognised at once as the Shrieking Shack.

"There, that's better," he said smugly. "We won't be seen here, eh Snape? Hmm?"

"Why don't you just bugger off now, Malfoy? You've done your duty, now leave me alone!"

"Oh, I will in a while, don't worry. But I have to admit to a little curiosity regarding my Master's apparent affection for you. He seems to hold your _prowess_ in very high esteem, even after all these years! And all this time here _I_ was thinking you such a cold fish!"

Snape did not deign to rise to the bait, so Malfoy smirked and began to unfasten the front of his robes, continuing,

"My Lord might be incapable these days, but I assure you that_ I_ am not…how about it, Snape? Hmm? Call it your swansong. Think of me as his proxy, if you like."

"I'll think of you as unmanned, you bastard!" Snape growled, advancing on Malfoy despite a trembling in his legs as the poison sent out exploratory feelers through his nervous system. "I could do it, you know! Bite it off and spit it out!"

"You wouldn't dare!" Malfoy blustered, glancing over his shoulder for his sidekicks, who were still looking around wondering where the other two had gone.

"Wouldn't I? And _what_, exactly, would I have to lose?"

"I wish I could be there to bear witness to the moment of your death, Snape!" said Malfoy, regaining his composure as two lumbering shapes cornered the shack, silhouetted against the setting sun like trainee mountain trolls searching for new clubs. "Crabbe, Goyle, time to go!"

Three loud cracks rent the air around them and Snape was alone. He could see Hogwarts' towering spires shimmering hazily in the distance, and tried to ignore the creeping numbness in his arm and the needles of pain that were its advance guard as he began to stumble down the scree at the far side of the shack, out of sight of the village below. He did not want strangers to witness his extremity and offer pity. It would be undignified. Moreover, it would be undeserved.

Halfway down, he heard a door slam behind him, rattling on rusting hinges.

"Severus! Is that you?"

It was the werewolf, hurrying down the slope.

"Lupin. The very man," muttered Snape. 

"You're back!" 

"So it would seem, yes. Your powers of observation are unparalleled." 

"You've been gone for weeks!" Lupin pointed out with an irritatingly boyish smile.

"Look, Lupin, is there a point to this conversation or can I just tell you to bugger off now?"

Snape was uncomfortably aware that the coldness on his forearm was spreading to his fingers, and he flexed them at his side several times before realising that he could no longer feel the fabric of his robes with his fingertips. He needed to get back to Hogwarts, and he needed to get there fast. He wanted to be able to hold Ella in his arms before he died.


	11. Medication

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Thanks for your patience. I know I normally try to update once a week, but I have been a little distracted lately and unable to devote any time to editing. I do hope you enjoy this chapter which is told from Remus Lupin's point of view. 

****

****

**Chapter11**

**Medication  **                

The house elves had been only too eager to supply a comprehensive selection of savouries for their picnic luncheon, and Severus and Ella had made valiant attempts to do justice to their efforts. As a result, while Persephone gurgled and kicked beside them, Ella sat back against the gnarled trunk of the tree and groaned as Severus flopped down beside her and laid his head on her lap.

"Oof! Oh, not there! Move down a bit!"

"Well, excuse me!" he countered dryly, shifting down to rest his head further along her thigh and lifting a caustic eyebrow.

"I am _so full_! Why on earth do they always give us so much food?"

"It's their _raison d'etre_. They live to serve."

"Don't let Hermione hear you say that!"

"Not saying it wouldn't make it any less true. And perhaps they feel the need to prepare for every possible eventuality," he continued sardonically, lifting his head slightly to look across towards the rose walk, "Such as ravening werewolves on the loose…Good afternoon, Lupin! How _delightful_! Come scavenging, have we?"

"Hello Severus! Ella! Lovely day, isn't it?"

"We _were_ enjoying it, yes…" Severus replied, settling back down into the indolent comfort of his wife's lap and closing his eyes.

"Mmm, that looks good!"

"Sit down, Remus, have some lunch!"

"Thanks, Ella, but I've just eaten lunch…well, maybe just a quick bite, it seems a shame not to."

Remus sat down beside Persephone and tickled her tummy before rummaging happily in the picnic basket.

"And where might Hermione be? Are we to be graced with her company, too?" rumbled Severus without opening his eyes.

"Nope, not today. She's just headed off to see Filius, armed with the latest issue of "Which Charm?" There's an article in it she wants to discuss, told me not to expect her before dinner."

Severus snorted derisively and smirked,

"Poor Flitwick. Ah well, his loss is our gain."

"Severus!"

"Oh, it's okay, Ella," said Lupin dismissively, helping himself to several sandwiches and a scotch egg that Ella had compared with incredulity to the size of a bludger. "I'm more than used to it by now."

"Since you seem determined to outstay your welcome, Lupin, perhaps you would like to regale Ella with the story of how you and Black found me near the Shrieking Shack that night and brought me back to the school…I was insensate at the time, and so I assume your recollection might be a shade more reliable than mine?"

"Hah! Well, since you ask _so_ nicely…"

            ****************************************************************

Remus Lupin was ravenous again. He looked forward to mealtimes with immense eagerness and never more so than since his return to Hogwarts, for there he was guaranteed a repleteness that would last for up to three hours, at least three times a day. Years spent living from hand to mouth had accustomed his wiry frame to enjoying sustenance that was merely adequate for his needs, but the cornucopia that was the Hogwarts kitchen was a treat that went far beyond the mere satisfying of a physiological imperative, and he was of the opinion that to enjoy each meal to its fullest was the highest compliment he could pay to the ever-diligent house elves who prepared it.

However, his metabolism demanded not only regular meals but also regular work-outs, and so he had 

taken to exercising two or three times a week in order to work off some excess energy and assure him of a restful night's sleep. He had had a particular female student much on his mind of late, and lying awake in the small hours, when all was quiet and thoughts of her had an unsettling tendency to fill his mind, was a very guilty pleasure that he felt more comfortable trying not to indulge. 

Thus it was that on the evening of Snape's return he had chosen to run to Hogsmeade before dinner, visit Honeyduke's and have a quick butterbeer in the Hog's Head, and then return to the school via the Shrieking Shack in order to assure himself that all was secure there. On his arrival everything had been quiet, but as he looked back towards the school from a dirty casement window on the first floor of the dilapidated shack, he had seen movement. A dark shape was descending the steep, rocky slope, and his hackles rose as he pressed his nose against the glass, frustrated that he could not catch its scent. Experience told him that the interloper had surely not been paying a social call, and he watched suspiciously as the dark figure stumbled away. As it turned its head to the west, however, the pink and orange rays of the setting sun illuminated its face, and despite the consequent absence of its usual pallor, Lupin recognised immediately that it was, in fact, Snape. There was obviously something badly wrong, however, as his movements had none of their usual graceful economy. 

Lupin turned and ran to the door, scooting down the stairs and out through the battered and splintered front door which creaked loudly on its hinges as he slammed it shut behind him. 

"Severus! Is that you?" he called after Snape's retreating back.

"Lupin. The very man," came a familiar, sneering retort. Snape couldn't be too badly hurt, then.

"You're back!" he said happily, knowing how delighted everyone would be, Ella in particular.

"So it would seem, yes. Your powers of observation are unparalleled." 

"You've been gone for weeks!" 

"Look, Lupin, is there a point to this conversation or can I just tell you to bugger off now?"

"Glad to be back?" replied Lupin, making a point of refusing to take offence and loping up to Snape. "Good grief, what happened to you? You're as white as a sheet!"

"I need to get back to Hogwarts. Is Ella there?"

"Of course! She'll be so glad to see you!"

"Somehow, I doubt that very much."

"No, really, she's practically lived in that pensieve since she got back. She says she understands why you sent her away now."

"All those wasted months, all for nothing. It all sours and spoils in the end. It's all rotten, everything he touches is rotten."

Snape was muttering to himself distractedly, as if Lupin was not even there, and clutched convulsively at the arm that bore the Dark Mark.

"Severus, are you alright?"

Snape raised pain filled eyes to meet Lupin's anxious gaze. Recognition flitted across his face and he took a deep, shuddering breath as he struggled to reply.

"No, Lupin, I'm far from alright. Help me get back to Hogwarts, I need – _aah_!"

He had doubled over in agony, and sat heavily on the stony ground, his legs shaking uncontrollably.

"What's happened to you?"

"Dark magic of the worst kind. I'm _dying_, man! Now are you going to help me or do I have to die here like an abandoned dog?"

Lupin looked down at him, aghast. Strong as he was, he did not relish the prospect of manhandling a man much taller than he, and with a far less equable temper, all the way back to the school. And Mobilicorpus was out of the question. He did not dare use magic when it appeared that Snape had just been subjected to Voldemort's most terrible curses.

"I'll get Sirius," he decided, fumbling under his fleece top for a small golden whistle on a leather cord. It would need the two of them to return Snape safely to the castle, and even then it would be a struggle.

"Oh, great!" 

"Beggars can't be choosers, Snape!" he retorted sharply, concern now putting a rein on his patience. He put the whistle to his lips and blew, for several seconds. He knew that while neither he nor Snape would be able to hear the sound, Sirius would, transformed or not.

"A _dog_ whistle!" said Snape highly amused and laughing derisively. "And you wear it round your neck! Oh, I've seen it all now!"

"I reckon you ought to just think yourself lucky I have it!"

"Lucky? Me, _lucky_? Oh, _yes_, I am the luckiest wizard alive, aren't I? Although _that's_ about to change! I am _so lucky_ that I've spent a lifetime alone, only to find a woman who seems, for some inexplicable reason, to not be repulsed by me and _then_ I find myself in my final death throes before I've even had a chance to give her a bloody good fu – _Aargh_!"

His tirade ended as spasms wracked his spare frame, and his eyes rolled back in his head for a few moments as he passed out. Lupin caught him before he cracked his head on the rocky, uneven ground, and cradled him in his arms, half sitting, waiting for Sirius to come. 

A few minutes later he made out a small black shape hurtling towards him across the fields. When at last the dog had reached them Sirius transformed back to himself, and said,

"Oh, so _he's_ back again, then, is he? What's the matter with him?"

Grimly, Lupin told Black all that he knew, which was not much, and between the two of them they hoisted Snape up so that one of his arms was slung over each of their shoulders. The movement brought Snape back to his senses, and after another groan as he realised once more who his rescuers were, he leaned on them and with their help made good progress to the bottom of the slope. As they crossed the fields Black fired questions at Snape about his mission and about the poison Voldemort had used on him, and Snape answered in as much detail as he could, knowing that the information he imparted would probably be beyond his capacity to give by the time they reached Hogwarts. He had passed out twice more by the time they had made their way up to the great oak doors, and they had to drag him up the steps bodily. Panting with exertion now and supporting a dead weight between them, they hitched Snape up one last time and crossed the Entrance Hall to the Great Hall, where they swung open the double doors with a crash.

The attention of the entire school turned on them as if the students and staff alike were of one body. Lupin, exhausted and frightened beyond belief for the life of his colleague and, he hoped, friend, felt as if time stopped for a moment, and the air was heavy with the expectation of how the next scenes would play out. A stifled cry and the clattering of a chair as it fell to the floor broke the silence, and a great swell of sound rose from the Hall as students from all Houses craned their necks to see what terrible accident had befallen their fearsome Potions master. 

Ella was at Snape's side within seconds, heedless of the stares and the surprise her reaction caused. She fell to her knees along with him as Lupin and Black relinquished him to her tender embrace, and she cradled his head, crying,

"Oh, Severus, my love, what's happened to you?"

Filled with relief that at least Snape had survived long enough to realise his dying wish, Lupin reached for Snape once more as Madam Pomfrey and Professor Dumbledore rushed up to them.

"We must take him to the hospital wing at once!" ordered Madam Pomfrey, and he and Sirius lifted Snape as Dumbledore drew Ella from him gently.

"Come on my dear, we must let Poppy do her work. I fear he has been the victim of some powerful dark magic," he said gravely, pointing at the Dark Mark, which was clearly visible through Snape's torn robes. Lupin had been uncomfortably aware of its glacial potency as he had carried Snape home, and he looked more closely at it now that they were indoors and it was illuminated by the plentiful wall sconces. The mark was inky black, and a livid purple bruise was spreading out from its centre, covering a large area of Snape's left arm.

"What _is_ that?" he head Ella ask, horrified. 

"I don't know," admitted Dumbledore worriedly, "but it is sure to be Voldemort's work." 

They carried Snape directly to the hospital wing, his head lolling on his chest, arms draped slackly over their shoulders. Once they had laid Snape's insensible form on the nearest bed, they stood back in order that Ella could embrace him once more.

"Severus, can you hear me?" she pleaded, resting a tender hand on his shoulder while the other caressed his face restlessly, stroking his hair back and cupping his face while her thumb stroked his cheek.

"Ella…" he moaned softly, and opened his eyes. "I'm sorry."

"Shh, it's okay, I understand. You're here now, you're safe, and that's all that matters."

"No, not safe…dying…" he whispered, and drifted into unconsciousness again. Ella looked up at Madam Pomfrey in horror, and she blanched, ripping off his tattered robes to reveal that the lividity around the Dark Mark was spreading further, until it would soon cover his arm completely. Lupin was stricken at the sight of it, and his heart wept when he saw Ella's face crumple in horrified disbelief.

 Dumbledore turned to him then and said urgently, 

"Go to my office. Inform the Ministry. Tell them to get the best people from St Mungo's here _now_. Sirius, go to the Potions classroom, see what Severus has locked away. Poppy, check your pharmacy, please. Time, I fear, will be of the essence."

After all their errands had been completed, Lupin and Black met with the Headmaster to apprise him fully of everything Snape had been able to tell them about the circumstances surrounding his poisoning, and the constituent parts of the brew. Dumbledore's reaction did nothing to assuage their fears, but they agreed nevertheless, in an unspoken accord, to pore over what tomes the library held in relation to creeping death potions and their possible counter agents, and not to sleep while the Potions master still breathed.

All their best efforts appeared to be in vain, however, for while the many possible antidotes and counter-curses seemed to slow down the spread of the lividity, still its progress across Snape's chest was inexorable.

Ella refused to leave his side, curling her body into his and murmuring to him ceaselessly of her love, and although Snape showed no sign now of knowing she was there, Lupin held on to the belief that he knew, now, how well he was loved, and that he would meet Death as a man more at peace than ever before. For it seemed certain that Death would indeed take him, and Dumbledore had informed Ella of the same that very hour. Exhausted and close to tears of frustration, still Lupin pored over arcane texts and searched dusty shelves deep into the night, until he had fallen asleep with a pile of ancient manuscripts as a pillow.

The next he knew, he was being shaken rudely awake by an agitated house elf. 

"Mucky is sorry to disturb Mister Professor Lupin, sir, but Mucky has a very important message, sir!"

"Wha'? What is it, Mucky?"

"Mister Headmaster Professor Dumbledore says that Mister Professor Lupin has to go to the Infirmary, sir! They is all doing a special spell, sir!" the house elf called after Lupin as he leapt from his seat and left the library at a run.

He and Sirius arrived together, just in time to see the Headmaster usher Ella away from Snape's bedside and draw the privacy curtains. Madam Pomfrey was wringing her hands in agitation, Ron Weasley was there looking nonplussed, and Ella seemed numb. Only Hermione noticed their arrival, and she gave them both a nervous smile before turning her attention to Ella, putting her arm around the older woman's shoulders. Lupin felt a surge of affection swell in his breast and swallowed hard, forcing his eyes away from her as he heard Harry's low murmur and the Headmaster's rumbling reply as they prepared themselves for the incantation.

"Facere bonus contra mortis!"

There was a blinding flash of violet light, followed by a crackle, and then Lupin heard a low, guttural cry that could have come only from Snape. Ella started towards the curtain, but Sirius stopped her, holding on to her arm and drawing her into a comforting embrace until Albus Dumbledore drew aside the curtain and Lupin could see Snape lying on the narrow cot, exactly as before.

 "Did it work?" asked Ella urgently.

"I believe it did, yes. Look, the lividity is receding slowly."

Lupin closed his eyes in relief as Hermione and Ella embraced, and the Headmaster came across to where he stood with Sirius and Professor McGonagall.

"You might want to award a rather large number of House points to Miss Granger, Minerva, and Harry too, of course!" he beamed. "And I think we might overlook the little matter of students roaming the corridors after curfew, on this particular occasion!"

Lupin looked across to the narrow hospital bed where Snape's still form slept on, and felt a lurch in his stomach. His relationship with the irascible Potions master had always been a difficult one, but he had nevertheless held on tenaciously to the hope that he would live to make amends for the youthful folly that had made him follow his friends' example rather than his own better nature. An outsider ever since he had been bitten by a werewolf as a child, he had recognised a kindred spirit in Severus Snape on their very first day at school. The young Snape had hidden it well, and the mask he wore had become ever more impenetrable as the years had worn on, but even so Lupin had seen him for what he was; alone and lonely. 

However, the young Remus had been befriended by Sirius Black, one of the most popular boys in their year, and his friend James Potter. The trio had been inseparable, and they had allowed Peter Pettigrew membership of their clique. One runt is more than enough in any litter, and the young Gryffindor cubs wanted nothing to do with a second, particularly a Slytherin who seemed to go out of his way to be unpleasant. Remus Lupin had been so grateful of their ready acceptance of him, even after they had discovered his shameful secret, that he found it all too easy to give up the battle to befriend Severus Snape before it had even begun.

How he had lived to regret that lack of moral fibre. Peter had betrayed them all and ruined their lives. Snape had been to Hell and back, helped on his way by all four Marauders, driven to take the Dark Mark and then prove his strength of character time and again after his renunciation of it. And now it had nearly killed him, as they had all known it eventually must. 

Remus Lupin could not help but feel as guilty as if he himself had introduced the vial of poison to the Dark Mark and watched as it drank, and he thanked the Fates that had allowed the remaining Marauders, and one of their descendants, to make amends now.

Exhausted and elated, the small group of staff and students withdrew to the wide ante-room outside the entrance to the ward, to allow Ella to shed her relieved tears in private while Madam Pomfrey performed some routine checks on Snape's cataleptic figure. After a while people began to drift back to their quarters, mindful of the requirement of a good night's sleep before the next school day. Lupin found himself accompanying Hermione back to Gryffindor Tower. 

They soon fell quite a way behind Harry and Ron, who were deep in conversation with Sirius, and Lupin felt that under the circumstances it would not be considered untoward to take her hand and link her arm through his as they walked. He felt rather than heard her sigh as she adjusted her step to fall in with his, and she squeezed his arm companionably. His head was spinning, and he knew that her nearness, the emotional drama to which they had both been party and their lack of sleep made a heady cocktail on which he was glad to be made drunk. 

Hermione hugged him when they reached the portrait hole. She felt so warm and vibrant, and he ached with the recognition of his feelings for her. For long weeks he had been reminding himself that she was still a student, and far younger than he, but nevertheless here he stood, holding her close to him and breathing in the fragrance of her hair, warmth radiating from her and sending an unmistakeable message to the less scrupulous part of his nature. Reluctantly he took her shoulders and pushed her gently from him before she could notice the effect their close embrace had had on him. Wishing he did not have to say goodnight, he pressed his lips to her forehead in a chaste kiss that nevertheless inflamed the heat in his loins until he felt like howling his frustration to the moon.

"Goodnight, Hermione. And …well done."

"Goodnight, Remus," she replied softly, his name whispering from her lips like a caress. He watched as she climbed through the portrait hole and only turned away as it was closing behind her.

He did not think he would sleep well that night, but he did.


	12. Recuperation

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

A big thank you to everyone who is reading and enjoying this story.

This chapter has been edited in order to comply with this site's ratings restrictions. The full version can be found on adultfanfiction.net, author name rickfan37 (direct link on my author page here on this site too).

****

**Chapter 12**

**Recuperation**

Having managed to reduce by a substantial degree the amount of food that had remained in the picnic basket after Ella and Severus had eaten their fill, Remus Lupin stretched noisily and rubbed his stomach in satisfaction before scratching his head and yawning.

"Well, I'd better be off, then," he said, dropping a light kiss on to Persephone's forehead before springing to his feet.

"What, so soon?" drawled Severus, not bothering to open his eyes. "At least take a little something for the walk back to the school, we wouldn't want you to go hungry!"

Lupin grinned at Ella good-naturedly, and reached into the wicker basket for an apple before loping off in the direction of the rose walk.

"I don't know how he puts up with your rudeness!" scolded Ella, stroking her husband's hair and trying to sound stern.

"Years of practice, on both our parts," Severus replied with a slight smirk. "And he got off lightly just now. When I asked him to tell you about that night I didn't mean I wanted him to give a detailed and, I might add, rather tasteless account of how Granger gave him an erection when_ I_ had only just escaped from the jaws of death!"

"Oh, I thought it was sweet!"

"Sweet? Well, you would! I myself felt quite nauseated."

"Well, he's gone now," Ella replied, idly running her finger from his forehead, down his long nose and over his lips. He grabbed her hand and pressed it to his lips, opening his eyes as he did so to give her a penetrating stare. Ella shivered, a warm tingle in her lower back signalling her body's reaction to his closeness and its promise.

He released her and sat up, crossing his legs so that he could lean over and watch his daughter as she kicked and gurgled contentedly beside them. His long fingers danced over her tummy, and before long her coos had become louder as her arms and legs began to flail excitedly.

His hair had fallen over his face and as she saw him in profile only his nose and mouth were visible. He was smiling gently at Persephone and Ella felt a surge of warmth for her husband, and a sudden rush of desire as her overwhelming maternal instincts confirmed to her that, their incredible sexual chemistry notwithstanding, here was a truly wonderful father for their child. She leaned forward and ran her hand across his back, and he turned to her, a smile still lighting up his usually stern features.

"I love you," she said.

"And I love you…" His eyes bored into hers once more and he reached out to draw her into his arms for a slow, delicate kiss. "I was elated to wake from that half-death and find you there…"

                      *****************************************************

Snape remembered little of the trek from the Shrieking Shack to the school. Supported bodily by two Marauders for whom he still harboured a festering resentment despite their consistently inadequate efforts to make amends for childhood hostility, he had found it impossible to resist the insidious spread of the creeping coldness. On several occasions he had passed out, as icy tendrils reached out to his brain stem, cutting off the supply of blood for minutes at a time. Every time he came to, he cursed under his breath at the bitter irony that found these two clowns saving his life when once they had sought to end it. Unconsciousness almost came as a relief, particularly in view of the fact that each time he came to, the castle loomed that much closer, and therefore he was so much nearer to seeing Ella again.

By the time Lupin and Black had dragged him up to the stone steps up to the main doors, he was no longer capable of rational thought, and all that he knew as he fell to his knees in the Great Hall was that at last he could smell jasmine.

Once in the Infirmary, smelling salts administered by Madam Pomfrey revived him just long enough for his mind to register that Ella was with him, leaning over him, touching him, tears spilling from her eyes on to his cheek.

"Ella, I'm sorry…" he groaned, forcing the words through lips that felt numb with cold. 

"Shh, it's okay, I understand." Her voice was far away, echoing across from the far bank of an inky river, and he had to concentrate hard in order to hear her. "You're here now, you're safe, and that's all that matters."

He had to make her understand, he had to hold her and tell her it would be for the last time.

"No, not safe…dying…" was all that he could manage before he was swept backwards and carried with the current, and knew no more.

He travelled for a long time in the Stygian dark. Now and then there would be flashes of light, but it was black light and it scared him, and so he did not try to reach it. That way lay certain death, he knew, and damnation too. Always there was a distant music whose refrain he could not discern, and he did not try for the effort always failed. The music was accompanied by a fragrance he craved, though, and from time to time its subtle counterpoint would send his spirit soaring as he remembered that he had known love, however briefly. For minutes at a time the music would swell, and form itself into words whose cadences were recognisably those of his love's, and he would know that she was there, and he would ache for the loss of her. Then, too soon, he would begin to drift once more and curse the undertow whose inexorable pull took him from her, and thereafter only the distant melody and the scent of jasmine would remain.

He wished that the numbness would go away. As it spread, the agony that marked out the pathways of his body for it to follow drew closer and closer to his heart, and further into his brain. At times he could feel warmth on his right side, where he suspected she lay, but her caresses were insubstantial and her kisses as light as the breeze. His left side was encased in ice, immobile and deadened, and so he clung to the sensation he still had left even though he knew it was as no more than sand, forever slipping through his fingers.

He knew despair. He had always known despite. Of the two, the despair was the most difficult to accept, because it involved Ella and the limitless regrets that marred his life. Despite, on the other hand, was his oldest friend and he felt its grip on his soul every day when he awoke. He deserved his fate, after all.

As he felt his life force freeze in his veins he was submerged, the current taking him deeper and further out now, where there was no need for the ferryman. The black light, whose mocking secrets would show him where he deserved to go and lead him there, was drawing him closer and he waved goodbye to the Elysian fields of Ella's love. They were simply the last in a long line of missed opportunities for redemption.

Such were what passed for his thoughts as he began to descend through the rapidly decreasing circles of death's vortex, until he felt a sharp, white pain assault his benumbed nervous system, its target his Dark Mark. He screamed, his paralysed throat muscles galvanised into activity by his body's sudden requirement to protest at what it perceived as more ill use. And then, for a while, he knew no more.

He still travelled in shadow but now the scent of jasmine pervaded his nostrils, along with citrus, and coconut. Perhaps he would spend eternity on a tropical island, he mused idly, and pass the time in contemplation of his own navel, listing the many and varied failings that had brought him to such a juncture. He felt sunlight on his face, which seemed to corroborate his initial assumption, and was surprised at the absence of the black light, which he had been sure would be his constant companion. There were no coins weighing down his eyelids, but still he struggled to prise one of them open, just a fraction, to try to ascertain the nature of his surroundings.

He was further heartened when he realised that the distant music had struck up once more, meaning that he might find company in this strange and unexpected afterlife, and this time by degrees he could discern its melodic refrain. For now, though, the melody was low and rhythmical, more percussive than before. 

Ella Redemte was stretched out beside him with an arm and a leg draped across him, and she was snoring.

When he awoke for the second time, she was gone. When he tried to call her name all that came out was a rasping groan, but as he turned his head he saw that it had been enough to make her hurry to his bedside with a smile so warm that he thought he would melt. She seemed to think that he should be capable of returning it, for she teased,

"What, no smile for me, Severus?"

Ah, her voice. He had known it to be her, every minute, but he was parched and could not tell her.

Licking his lips, he managed just one word, 

"Thirsty." 

Once she had helped him to slake his thirst he swallowed painfully and asked,

"Have you been here all the time?" 

Tender fingers grazed his cheek and he leaned in to her hand, amazed, as she answered,

"Where else would I go?"

She came into his arms willingly and he drew her down to him with a sigh, feeling the weight of her head on his chest and closing his eyes in gratitude for his life as he savoured the exquisite sensation of her hair spilling across his chest and shoulders.

 "I heard your voice, but I couldn't answer you," he said, his voice rasping and wheezy. "It was you, wasn't it, all the time? No-one else?"

"It was me."

"Hmm," he coughed. "You talk too much, then."

She laughed delightedly and her breath tickled his chest as it ruffled against the lapel of his silk dressing gown. He wondered idly who had undressed him, and, more to the point, who had managed to get past his wards into his private rooms for his robe. He sighed, resigning himself to the certain knowledge that not only did Albus Dumbledore have the ability to go wherever he wanted in Hogwarts, and invade whoever's privacy he chose, but that for once he, Severus Snape, did not care. He had far more pressing matters to attend to, and she was holding him more closely than anyone else ever had in all of his life.

"You are aware of my feelings for you by now, I suppose?" he asked awkwardly, unused to verbal declarations of love but suspecting – hoping -  he was going to get a good deal of practice. She lifted her head and looked into his eyes.

"Very well aware, my love."

She kissed him tenderly and his arms crushed her to him with a vigour that surprised them both. As his tongue pushed at her lips they parted eagerly, and joyfully he plunged inside, tasting her and learning her and determined never to let her go.

                                                                           ***

Their first encounter of a more intimate nature since their reconciliation was one that he would never forget, and which served to exorcise one of the more tenacious demons of his past. He could scarcely believe what she was doing, at first. She had not left his side for a moment, and even in his weakened state her presence, and her compulsive need to touch him, thrilled and aroused him. 

He had always shied from physical contact. The withdrawal of demonstrations of physical affection by his parents, when he was eight years old and expected to 'be a man', had coincided with the birth of his brother Caius, and the sensitive, solitary child had connected the two events so that all parties were resented equally from then on. 

The sudden reintroduction of 'affection' into his life had been nothing like the sort he had craved. It had come only after his introduction to a charismatic leader of men, and had been twisted and depraved, a sexual power play that pained his soul and forced him far inside himself, to hide from hurt with even more determination than before.

Now, ever since he had seen her in the Mirror of Erised, he had longed for Ella's touch and it was every bit as intoxicating as he had dreamed it would be. She could not leave any part of his skin untouched, it seemed, and he marvelled at the thoroughness of her attentions. His skin was so sensitised by her gentle fingertips and – oh gods – her soft, warm lips that each spot she touched arched out to her and lamented her passing on to other, needier parts. 

"What _are_ you doing?" he asked breathlessly as she stroked his chest and planted kisses all over his ribcage.

"Oh, I'm sorry, do you want me to stop?" she asked innocently, trailing her hand lower and unfastening his dressing gown slowly. His breathing hitched in his chest and his erection grew until it tented the silk of the robe. 

"No, don't stop…."

She leaned over him and ran her hands up to his shoulders and across, pushing the fabric away so that she could gaze down at his chest before lowering her head and kissing her way across the smattering of black hairs until she reached a small, flat nipple. She ran her tongue across its tip, making him shiver as she teased it into a peak before turning her attention to the other. Meanwhile, her hand had crept below the bed-sheet and now she tugged the dressing gown open so that the smooth fabric ran over the head of his straining penis. She ran her hand down over his left hip, carrying on down his thigh and moving between his legs as he spread them to accommodate her. As she ran her fingers down to his scrotum he moaned, heat flooding through him and pooling in his groin, making his erection twitch and brush against the side of her arm. She sighed, and squeezed his balls, and he gasped and threaded his fingers through her hair, pulling back her head so that he could look into her eyes and show her his need for her.

"What are you doing to me?" he said, hoarsely. Her calm green eyes were now stormy and black with lust and he arched his back as she slid her fingers around his shaft and whispered,

"Unfinished business." 

As he cried out she moved down the bed and buried her face in his groin while her fingers danced along his turgid shaft. The sensation was incredible and he lifted his head to watch, but then she lowered her mouth down on to him and he threw it back and gripped each side of the mattress. His breathing grew laboured and as her tongue flicked across his head he hissed. Abruptly she let him go, and sat up on the bed, kneeling between his legs, gazing down at him.

"Aaah, you've stopped!" he gasped, plaintively. The nearby window was open, and the cool breeze that blew across his incredible erection, still coated with her saliva, was in sharp contrast to the now absent hotness of her mouth. 

"I think that's enough excitement for one day, don't you?" she mocked, raising an eyebrow.

"No! Oh Ella, you witch, don't do this to me!"

"Beg me! I want you to beg me. And be polite!"

He was not the kind of man to beg. Surely she knew that much by now. The only time he had ever begged anything of her had been to entreat her to return to Hogwarts, and that had been for her own good. But when he looked into her eyes and saw the desire there tinged with a surprisingly arousing hint of mischief, he succumbed completely. He told himself that he would cooperate with her game, but still could not control the helplessness that poured from his lips as he babbled heedlessly,

"Oh, please don't stop. Please, I can't hold it in. Please, touch me again, I'll do anything!"

She laughed, a deliciously low, throaty laugh, and her eyes sparkled as she bent over him once more. 

Her delicate fingers teased and cupped his balls and she took him in, her head bobbing up and down in his lap and her hair spilling all over his legs like satin. Every lap of her tongue erased a memory of a previous encounter, every light scrape of her teeth diminished those twisted parodies of affection until their poisoned legacy ceased to matter to him at all. He felt an insistent tingling in his lower abdomen that grew in intensity until his mind began to spin and he knew that he was coming, and it was the most incredible sensation he head ever felt. It was nothing like anything he had ever known, nothing like the other times, nothing like them, because this time it was Ella and she loved him, Ella's hair over his legs, Ella's head in his hands, she loved him and it was the first time, he had never, Ella, _Ella!_

He lay prone on the bed, his breathing coming only in ragged gasps. He was only vaguely aware of Ella kissing her way back up his body but as she reached his lips he gathered sufficient of his faculties to murmur 

"Oh, Ella, I love you."

Ella curled up beside him and drew him to her so that he rested his head on her chest, and as he succumbed to an exhausted sleep once more he heard her murmur,

"For someone who finds it hard to share his feelings, you're doing remarkably well…"

He spent the following days in a state of near-permanent frustration. He had slept so long after Ella's bravura performance that afternoon that she had feared she had exhausted him to the extent of compromising his recovery, so she insisted that an encore was out of the question. And to make matters worse, she had taken to leaving him on his own in the Infirmary for hours at a time, so that she could help the idiot Black in the higher Potions classes. He suspected that his insistence every time they were lying together on taking her hand and moving it down under the sheets to the place he most wanted it to touch had something to do with her excuses, but he found it most tiresome. 

He wanted to run his mouth all over her, possess her with a fervour he knew she returned, but she was adamant in her refusal of him. She would stretch out beside him and embrace him, nuzzle his face and plant kisses across his chest, arch her full breasts into his hand as he squeezed her soft flesh until her eyes glazed over in passion, but she would allow no more than that, and her hands refused resolutely to stray. She drove him to distraction, and he told her so. She simply smiled, told him she adored his irascibility, and kissed him until he forgot where he was, who he was, and why he was angry, and then she would pretend she heard Madam Pomfrey's approach and leap from his arms, laughing as he roared his displeasure at her diversionary tactics.

She assumed that he had ceded control, but if that was so then it had not been done willingly. He fully intended to restore the balance of power in his favour, just as soon as his physical fortitude was a match for the psychological wellbeing Ella bestowed on him. It was only right.

                                                                           ***

"Poppy? _Poppy!_"

Brisk footsteps clipped across the room signalling Madam Pomfrey's approach.

"What is it now?" she asked peremptorily, pulling back the privacy screens with a scrape.

"I need my robes. And my clothes."

"Why? It's not as if you're going anywhere, is it?"

Snape glared at her.

"Haven't I been held captive here for long enough this time?"

"You nearly died, you were very weak!"

"And I pulled through! Again!"

"You need rest," she stressed.

"I'll rest far better in the comfort of my own bed!" he growled, folding his arms.

"Somehow I doubt that," she muttered primly, tucking in the sheet at the foot of his bed and making him shake his leg irritably to loosen it again.

"You can't keep me here."

"No, I never can! But I don't see why I should make it easy for you to ignore my advice!"

She withdrew her wand from a long pocket in her starched white apron, and pointed it first at Snape's temple, then his heart, finishing off with a sweep across his torso. Then she said matter-of-factly,

"I don't see why I should send a house elf for your clothes, either. You can sort it out for yourself, since you're so much better!"

With that parting shot, she turned and stalked off back to her office. Snape scowled, then clapped his hands twice and shouted,

"Dobby!"

The lesson was nearly over by the time he reached the dungeons, and when he swept through the door and into the classroom she was at the far side of the room, tidying ingredients away for Black. His eyes locked with hers in a flash of understanding, and he was gratified that she had sufficient discretion not to acknowledge his entrance. His breathing quickened with anticipation and he wondered whether he would be able to get rid of the class, _Professor_ Black included, before his self control completely disappeared.

He found himself thanking the Troublesome Trio for their efforts to save his life, and he was surprised to discover that his words were actually sincere. Meddling miscreants though they were, it appeared that they had been instrumental in finding a way to stop the curse, and he had been disarmed and somewhat touched by their efforts. However, he hoped they did not feel inclined to broadcast their surprise, for he had a feeling his reputation had already been dealt a severe enough blow with the news of his relationship with Ella.

_Ella_. At last, the classroom door swung shut behind Potter and Black, and he was alone with her. 

She had been putting the last of the bottles away, lining them up on the workbench, and as he came up behind her he saw that her hands were trembling. His hands snaked around her waist, and his lips whispered into her hair,

"Ella…I want to- make _love_ to you. Now." With a soft sigh that sent a tingle of desire directly to his already turgid manhood, she sank back against him, and he shivered as she leant her head against his chest. She tilted her head to look up into his eyes and he marvelled at the passion he saw there. His hands reached up to cup her breasts, so full and heavy, and his need for her, simmering for so many months now and bubbling over thanks to her unwitting but unbearable tantalisation over recent days, would be denied no longer. He bent his head to taste the sweetness of her lips, and then with one fluid motion he picked her up in his arms and carried her purposefully towards his office. He shut and locked the door determinedly behind them with a powerful locking and silencing charm, and, without breaking his stride, took her directly through into his bedroom. 

He set her down before him, his eyes never leaving hers, and struggled to keep his ragged breathing under control. A delicate flush was spreading from her neck down, and he was drawn to follow its alluring path. With rapid, determined movements he began with nimble fingers to unfasten her robes, slipping them off her shoulders before continuing his undressing of her, unable to resist kissing every inch of newly exposed flesh. Her chest was heaving and she kept breathing his name, and the soft sibilance of it threatened to be his undoing. Her hands were still shaking and she struggled to unbutton his frock coat, forcing it from his shoulders at last with an impatience that amused and aroused him. She began to kiss and nip his shoulders but by now he had freed her full breasts from the white lace brassiere she wore and his eyes feasted on them properly for the first time in nearly a year. 

His erection was painful now, and he felt a sharp tingle in his abdomen. He moaned and pushed her from him for a moment, so that he could swoop down and open his mouth wide over one of her breasts, taking into it as much of the creamy white flesh as he could, laving his tongue over her and searching for the hard pink nub that was her nipple. She cried out as his tongue flicked across it, and his hand splayed tight across her back as he teased and caressed it, but then she suddenly seemed to grow impatient of her passive role and grasped the waistband of his trousers. Oh Gods, he wanted that too, and he relinquished her exquisite nipple for just long enough to mutter a quiet unbuttoning spell, since she seemed to have trouble with his buttons and the desperate fluttering of her fingers around his crotch would be his undoing. The imperative to bury himself inside her welcoming body was undeniable, and as she released him from his underclothes he gave a deep groan, and wrapped his arms around her, lifting her so that her arms were around his neck and she was half propped against the thick carved oak post at the foot of his bed. 

This was it. He did not have to wait any longer. He had spent so many years denying all bodily pleasure, so many years unable to feel anything at all, and then years more of loneliness and dissatisfaction, alienation and bitter self-loathing. And now here he was, and here she was, and all of his past simply melted away, dissolved to nothing by the fiercely overwhelming heat of their mutual passion. He did not know from whence it came, or why the Fates had allowed it, but he did not care. Here they were, and he was on the brink of _knowing_.

She wound her legs around his waist and he could not hold back. He thrust inside her with a savage need and she cried out his name, arching her back to take him deeper, grinding herself against him as he held her as tightly as he could, buried deep inside her, sheathed in a tight, wet glove, wanting to cry with the sensation, sweating, hearing her breathing his name with each of his thrusts. 

He could barely stand the bliss. She filled every one of his senses; a heady scent of musky female arousal mingled with jasmine to create the very essence of Ella; the sweet flavour of vanilla and sweat from her breasts and the taste of her mouth; the exquisite sensation of her skin as his fingers slid over its satin expanse; the lust in her voice as she panted his name, and the abandonment of her whimpers and moans as she surrendered to him; and her eyes, oh, her eyes, rampant and roiling with passion, overflowing with a raging torrent of love and it was turned on him full force and she was his, all his, and he was hers, unconditionally and incontrovertibly.

He was not surprised to discover the tingling in his abdomen dull and shrink into a tight ball of heat that he knew was the herald of his orgasm. She rocked against him and her voice grew higher with each utterance of his name. Her fingers were digging into his shoulders spasmodically and he knew that she too was close to her climax, and as she began to scream out his name he felt himself jerk inside her and then he was coming too, pumping his seed into her warmth over and over, crying out her name as her internal muscles clamped around him.

Once they were both spent, he realised his arms and legs were trembling uncontrollably and he suspected that the shattering orgasm was only partially responsible. As Poppy Pomfrey never tired of reminding him, he was getting no younger, and the years had not been kind to him thus far. Ever the pragmatist, even after such a mind-blowing experience, Snape decided it would be prudent to move on to the bed before he collapsed with exhaustion. If Ella discovered his still-weakened state she might try to refuse him an encore and now that he had joined with her he knew that he would never be able to get enough of her. He fastened his arms around her more tightly still, and carried her round to the side of the bed, first stepping out of the trousers that had been pooled at his feet, slipping out of her with a sigh of regret as he laid her down and then climbed on to the bed beside her. They wrapped themselves around one another then, trying to cover every inch of the other's flesh that they could with their own, unable to get close enough.

This was something completely new to Snape. As he lay there feeling the cool air play on his sweat-sheened skin he felt Ella snuggle closer in against him and he curled his body around her, wrapping her into himself. He made a conscious effort to close his mind to the bitter memories of same-sex encounters of years ago. Those couplings had had nothing to do with sex, less still love, and everything to do with power and manipulation. 

He remembered the few – very few - brief liaisons he had allowed himself since those dark days. He had paid for all of them, and it had not been money alone that had been exchanged, for the encounters had bestowed on him a particular sense of sorrow and dissatisfaction that had lasted for much longer than his recollection of the women's faces. After each coupling he had dressed at once and made his exit, with never a backwards glance. He had spurned their efforts at polite conversation and been repelled by their attempts to paw him and kiss him, as if there was a relationship between them that should be nurtured. As if he had any intention of repeating the experience with them.

And now for the first time in his life he knew true intimacy. Ella's face was buried in his chest and he was glad she could not see his face, for he had no idea of how he would be able to disguise the helpless need in his eyes and he feared such an exposure, so soon. He felt his heart pounding in his breast and wondered whether or not she could feel it too, and he listened to his pulse settle as the rush of blood through his ears slowed. He wished that the lump in his throat would lessen, too, but he was too choked to speak and he feared that if he gave in to it he could quite easily be reduced to tears, and that would never do. She seemed content simply to lie there in his embrace, and he wondered whether she too was taking stock of this momentous event. Her hair tickled his chin as she shifted against him, and he stroked her hair and kissed the top of her head tenderly. After a while she tilted her head to look up at him, and although he knew that helpless devotion must surely be written all over his face, still he could do nothing else but gaze deep into her eyes. 

"I could drown in your eyes," she smiled. He closed his eyes, the frown line deepening between them. His heart was too full. "I know, too soppy. Mmmm. Forget I spoke." She pulled him closer and ran her foot up and down his leg. His reticence did not offend her in the least, it seemed, but he found himself replying anyway. 

"It isn't that," he answered softly. "I just - I'm not accustomed to this." He sighed, and ran his fingers along the curve of her jaw. He hardly dared to ask her why she loved him, why she lay in his arms so contentedly. He feared that the last few weeks had been a dream, and that reality would find them both still seated at the ridiculously small table outside Florian Fortescue's ice cream parlour, each unaware of the other's true feelings. "I still don't know what you see in me."

 "Apart from your intelligence, your strength, your wit, your undeniable physical charms? Can't imagine…" 

He kissed her again then, for a very long time. He would never grow tired of kissing her. He had shifted down the bed a little, so that his head was on a level with hers, and while their legs remained entwined they each drew back just enough to allow each to caress the other's face with trembling hands. He explored every inch of her skin with his fingertips and then followed the trail with his lips, planting delicate kisses on her eyelids, her brow, her nose, her jaw, her ears, and her lips, always her lips, so full and warm and eager for him. He was as if in a dream, and when their mouths finally locked in tender eagerness once more, he knew he had come home. Body and soul, he was hers, and all of his life would be lived in her name from now on. The realisation made his heart swell and he wanted to laugh and cry, and more than that, he wanted to make love to her again. And again, and again. He wrapped his arms around her once more and shifted his hips, pressing his hardening member to her thigh. She sighed and wriggled as he caressed her back, dancing his fingers along her spine, and her eagerness for him inflamed him even more until he had to take control, had to possess her, had to show her how much she meant to him.

He moaned and moved over until he was above her, resting on his elbows looking down at her with her hair spread all over his pillows. He pushed her legs apart with his knee and kissed his way along her neck, making his determined way to the prize of her hard pink nipple. He groaned as he covered it with his mouth, swirling his tongue around it and taking it deep into him, areola too, exulting in her whimpers and the way her hands tangled in his hair, revelling in a power over her that was like no other he had ever known; a power that was pure and freely allowed, that did not seek to belittle or overwhelm, except out of a mutual accord. A power that could just as easily be turned on its head in an instant, as he discovered when she suddenly decided to tug at his hair and then push him off her firmly. She straddled him, planting one hand either side of his head and leaning over him so that her long hair brushed his chest. Rocking slightly, she teased the tip of his arousal, her damp curls stroking across it but never quite allowing him access. Her eyes never left his and he saw the spark of triumph in her eyes as she felt his hips arch upwards, straining to sheath himself. Then her eyelids hooded and she lowered herself on to him, crying out as she impaled herself and he could not bear it, so he grabbed her hips and held her still, breathing raggedly, until the moment of crisis passed. She sat up, leaning back on her knees, and as his angle of penetration changed he groaned and began to sweat, feeling her velvety skin massage his shaft as she tensed her internal muscles around him. The sensation was exquisitely tight, and hot, and softer than anything he had ever felt in his life.

She slapped him hard, leaving his left cheek stinging.

 "Ow! What was that for?" he complained, his surprise quickly turning to a groan of pleasure as she flexed her vaginal walls around him once more. "Aaah!"

 "That's for making me wait a whole year for this," she hissed, and his lips curled back in glee. She wanted to play. He had never played in bed before, had never enjoyed any relationship sufficiently intimate to make him want to drop his guard, and he was intrigued to see how far she wanted to go.

"Show me how annoyed you are!"

"You want me to hit you again?" she asked breathlessly, her chest heaving so enticingly that he had no other option than to reach for her breasts and watch their heaviness spill out over his hands.

"No, I want you to do what you do after hitting me!" he growled, rubbing his thumbs across her nipples.

"Well then, I'm annoyed. I'm very annoyed," she said huskily, beginning to grind up and down on him again. His hands returned to her hips and he controlled the rhythm and angle of her thrusts for his own benefit as much as for hers, knowing he would not last long if he ceded all control to her, noting her reactions carefully and knowing from the whimpers she began to make and the expression on her face which angles gave her the most pleasure. He was transfixed, watching her climb towards her orgasm, and he felt as if he was both an observer and a participant in their shared passion, since while his own climax was approaching at a dizzying rate, still he could not ignore his undeniable desire to witness her fulfilment at his hand and he realised that this was the first time he had ever cared about anyone's pleasure but his own. Ah, she was close now; her face was flushed and her nipples were hard peaks aching for his tongue – he obliged, and she gasped his name – and her cries were more and more desperate and all because of him, Severus Snape, greasy git and Death Eater, but not to her, not in her eyes, she saw only the man inside, and he was letting her see him, letting her in, and as she screamed out in her bliss she pulled him over the edge along with her. It was incredible. The familiar tightness in his balls, the surging rush along the length of his shaft pulsing deep into her core, massaged out of him and into her by the rhythmic contractions of her velvet walls around him. He had never felt anything comparable to this and he had to force himself to stay silent after it was over, to stop himself from babbling incoherently of his adoration.

He was overcome, when it was finished. She collapsed on to him, and he held her close and stroked her hair and her back. His heart was full, again, and he wanted to tell her all that was in it. However, he feared the sweet agony of complete surrender and at that moment his love for her blazed so fiercely that he was concerned that she would be overwhelmed by it and choose to reject it along with everything that it would imply for them. He used all of his considerable self control to rein in his emotion, and decided that a more light-hearted continuation of their game would be an appropriately loving response to the moment. He rolled her off him and underneath him so that he could look down at her, and he said in a low, mocking voice,

"Next time, I'm in charge! I'll make you pay for _this_," pointing to his reddened cheek, "in ways so sweet your screams will echo through the castle!" 


	13. Exhilaration

**Chapter 13**

**Exhilaration**

****

Ella hardly knew how she and her husband had come to be returned to their rooms. Her physical reactions first to Severus' heart-warming interactions with their daughter and then his subsequent reminiscences about their lovemaking had left her breathless and craving a more intimate touch than he would give outside the sanctum that was their suite of rooms. Consequently, when the family had encountered Professor McGonagall in the Entrance Hall Ella had accepted her offer to "…Show little Persephone the pretty new Orrery in Professor Sinistra's classroom" with an alacrity that had earned a raised eyebrow from her husband, followed by dawning comprehension and a smug smile. It was soon agreed that Professor McGonagall would look after her small charge until dinner that evening, and so Ella and Severus had the luxury of over two hours alone.

By the time the dungeon door had swung shut behind them Ella had lifted her thin summer dress over her head and tossed it on to a chair, and now she turned to her husband and wrapped her arms around his neck impatiently.

"Make love to me!" she urged before pulling his head down to claim his lips. To her intense irritation, he spluttered with laughter and placed his hands on her waist, pushing her from him a little so that he could look down at her.

"My, my, we are in a hurry, aren't we?" he teased.

"I've been listening to your own particular brand of verbal foreplay for more than an hour, I hardly think you can accuse me of being in a hurry now!" she complained.

"Verbal foreplay? Hmm!"

"You _know_ what your voice does to me! And to hear you use it to describe – to describe – "

"To describe…the way your breast feels as it rubs against my chest? The noises of frustration you make when I don't… _quite_…touch you in the right place?" 

She moaned as he slipped his hand around her waist until his long fingers could trail down and brush the nest of curls at the juncture of her thighs. 

"The way you make me _thirst_ to taste you?"

His voice had dropped to a low, husky whisper and she sank forward into his arms as his fingers delved between her legs.

"_Severus….!_"

He began to stroke her gently, in and out, murmuring over her soft cries as he continued,

"And let's not forget _the way you feel when I'm deep inside you_…"

Ella made an incoherent gurgling noise and he grinned ferally, slipping his fingers from her and picking her up, reaching their bed in a few easy strides. He tossed her on to the bed unceremoniously while muttering a hasty

"Divestio!" and joined her there before she had the chance to complain.

It just kept on getting better, he reflected as he moved rhythmically above her, gazing down into her eyes and then leaning down to nuzzle behind her ear in the way he knew made the small of her back tingle. Her fingernails dug into his shoulders, and he could not suppress a satisfied 

"Hmph!" as she breathed his name into his ear, the heat of her breath sending similar signals down to the base of his own spine. He felt the familiar tingling in his lower abdomen and altered the angle of his thrusts, slowing and beginning a circular motion that made his wife sob out his name and thrust her hips up to meet his. He had expected such a reaction, and as her climax built until he knew her release was imminent, he took his weight on his elbows, freeing his hands so that they could stroke her damp hair from her face and cup her cheeks, fixing his gaze on her as she came, letting himself fill her with his seed, on and on as their eyes locked, her sobbing his name over and over, he groaning 

"Ella! Oh, my Ella! Gods, _Ella_!"  as her body spasmed beneath him, massaging him, milking him until he was spent. Only when it was all over did he kiss her lips and roll from her, pulling her along with him so that she lay curled into him and he around her.

                  ************************************************************

Snape had been amazed, over subsequent weeks, at how happy and hopeful one man could be. Ella had tried to assert herself that first evening after his discharge from the Infirmary, and much to his perturbation, he had almost allowed it. They had arrived late for dinner and the Great Hall had been full. Albus had insisted on making an announcement about how happy everybody must be to see their Potions master restored to health, and he had noticed Poppy Pomfrey's arch expression, glaring at her irritably and suspecting that she would be keeping a close eye on his recovery. He had not expected Ella to be party to any conspiracy to force him to rest, when he would admit to no-one but himself that he needed it , but as the Hall was emptying at the end of dinner she had the gall to turn to him and say,

"You look tired. You need to rest. Madam Pomfrey doesn't look pleased with you at all."

Severus nodded in agreement. He was tired, it was true, and he greatly looked forward to a good night's sleep in his own bed, with Ella's loving warmth wrapped all around him.

"Get a good night's sleep, and I'll see you in the morning."

"What?" What on earth could she be thinking? "Wait a minute, where are you going?" he asked, indignant.

"Well, back to my rooms, of course," she shrugged, as if she was being perfectly reasonable and he was a somewhat dull-witted child.

"_Of course?_" he repeated, outraged, gripping her arm. "Listen to me. The only place you're going is back to _my_ rooms with _me_. Understand? I don't intend to spend the night alone, and I'm surprised _you_ find the prospect so appealing!"

"Severus, you're hurting me, and you can stop talking to me as if I'm one of your students. Go to bed, I'll still be here when you wake up tomorrow, Now, goodnight." She reached up to kiss him briefly then turned on her heel and actually walked away from him. He watched, speechless with surprise, as she left the Great Hall without a backward glance. He was dimly aware of two of the banes of his life sniggering behind him, but he was far too annoyed to waste his breath on Lupin and Black. He left by the doorway to the dungeons, muttering darkly that he would not allow her to get the upper hand. 

His resolve lasted for approximately half an hour, during which time he had variously paced his room, gone to the corridor, removed his robe, donned it again, made to go out again, and cursed a good deal. At last, he locked and warded the door and set off along the corridor. She might be prepared to spend the night without _him_, but there was no way _he_ intended to spend it without _her_.

His anger faded as he ascended through the castle until he reached the hospital wing, and by the time he reached her door it had been replaced with a gnawing need for her company, despite her apparent indifference to his feelings. He scoffed at himself. She had reduced him to this, and he had allowed it, and as he entered her room and saw her silently sleeping, he admitted ruefully that he would probably allow it again. He undressed without making a sound, slipping into bed beside her and sighing as he buried his face in the hair that lay across her pillow. She snuggled back into him and he embraced her, letting his hand cover her breast. Thus comforted, he slept.

 His bad temper reasserted itself with a vengeance when he woke the following morning to find himself alone in a strange bed, with her side of it cold. The note she had left him on the pillow did nothing to improve his disposition. It was brief, saying simply,

_"Gone to breakfast, didn't want to disturb you. See you there, love E xxx"_

She assumed too much. She expected that he would simply follow her blindly, fall in with her plans, do as she instructed. He would not be treated in so cavalier a manner. He stalked into the Great Hall in a flurry of swishing robes and scraped back his chair angrily.

 "Is _this_ how it's going to be?" he spat at her. "My chasing you all over the school like a lovesick fool, never knowing whether or not you'll be there when I wake up?"

Ella did not even look abashed.

"I don't know, Severus, how would you _like_ it to be?"

"I want you to come with me to the dungeons. _Now_! Unless you think I need more sleep!"

 "You look _very_ well rested to me, love."

"Then will you come?"

Oh, he was undone. With a delicately raised eyebrow and a curve of her lip, she leaned over until her mouth brushed against his hair, and her siren song made him as hard as granite within seconds as she whispered,

"As often as you want to make me…just as soon as I've finished my breakfast."

And she did come as often as he wanted to make her, which was frequently. Over the next few weeks they were apart only during lessons, which he delivered with his usual professionalism but which found him in a foul temper, for when he was teaching he was not with her and ached to be. He still suffered from nightmares, but learned that her arms were always there, warm and welcoming, and the terrors were tempered when he lay in her embrace. He even felt a swell of pride at Black's jibes and Lupin's gentle teasing, for he had Ella's love and wanted to shout it from the top of the Astronomy Tower.

One day in early December he had woken before she, and lay spooned around her back with one hand cupping a soft, warm breast. He shifted against her, enjoying the way his early morning erection pressed into her thigh but in no particular hurry to do anything about it, and let his mind wander contentedly where it would. He looked forward to many more mornings like these, and once they were married his happiness would be guaranteed. His eyes snapped open at the thought. It was, of course, the next logical step. He was simply surprised to find himself secure enough – contented enough - to make such an assumption. He was not a young man. He had spent years alone, and not simply because he had chosen to. He still scarcely believed that he had found someone seemingly willing to overlook all his faults and many misdemeanours, and to simply love him for who, and what, he was. 

He frowned. She did not truly know all that he was, or all that he had done. If he told her, what then? Would she still want him? Could she still love him? His erection wilted rapidly as he realised that he did not want to run the risk of finding out. He had opened himself up to her, body and soul, in a way that he had never done with anyone before, but dark corners remained and he was not ready to offer all of it up to her scrutiny. Better just to love her, and be loved in return, and thank the Fates for bringing her to him.

A sudden greying of the sky drew his eye to the window. Heavy clouds had covered the sun, and he caught a glimpse of snow as the first flakes tapped gently on the diamond leaded panes. It would be Christmas soon, he realised. He would be spending this one with Ella. He would be happy. He realised with sudden alarm that he would need to buy her a gift. 

It would have to be something deeply personal and symbolic, he understood that. He had witnessed far too many Christmas Day tantrums from remaining female students or members of staff, whose partners had been complacent enough to offer a less appropriate gift than the object of their affection felt she merited. He did not relish the prospect of incurring Ella's displeasure, worse still any disguised disappointment. He frowned thoughtfully.

She woke soon after, stretching her legs languorously and arching back into him, reaching her arm round behind her head to fumble for his cheek. He caught her hand and kissed her palm, then nuzzled her hair, murmuring,

"Good morning."

"Mmph. Morning."

Conversation was never at its most sparkling when they first woke up, but fortunately actions could often speak louder than words, and she wriggled until she was facing him, with her legs wrapped around his. She looked up into his eyes with a sleepy smile, and he kissed each eyelid in turn. The room had darkened as the snow fell more thickly, and so the green of her eyes this morning was the grey-green of a stormy sea. He gazed into their depths for a while, stroking her cheek with his thumb as his hand rested in her hair. There was always something new to see in her eyes, he mused. Always some new combination of colours to note, and to file away in his memory. A sunny day would find them golden and dancing, while passion would darken them. Even a dull and stormy day would exhibit its violent beauty to pleasing effect, when reflected in her eyes.

Emeralds, he thought suddenly. He would buy her emeralds.

                                                                            ***

Trying to dissuade her from accompanying him to Diagon Alley a few days later was a challenging test of his powers of persuasion. He had been circumspect in his reason for the excursion, unwilling to give her the slightest inkling of the true reason for his trip, but she appeared to be undeterred, telling him that she would have a wonderful time completing her Christmas shopping. Even when he hinted that a necessary visit to the Ministry of Magic, to deliver by hand a letter from Dumbledore to Kingsley Shacklebolt, might take up a good part of his day, she simply said,

"That's okay. I keep telling you, I can keep myself busy! 

In the end, he had only one card still hidden up his sleeve, and he played it with a vehemence that cowed her.

"Ella, it wouldn't be prudent! The Dark Lord has spies everywhere and he must know by now of my miraculous escape from the jaws of death! He doesn't like to be thwarted. He _will_ seek vengeance. And I have – business to attend to."

She was silent for a few moments as his words sank in, and he began to breathe more easily, but then she said,

"Business, yes, you said. At the Ministry."

"Yes, with Kingsley Shacklebolt."

"From the Order?"

"Yes, Order business. Not that the Ministry knows that, of course."

"So, it's safe there! I'll be fine, I can wait for you in the foyer, it couldn't _be_ safer! Then we can go to Diagon Alley together!"

"Yes, but, I could be there for hours! We're going round in circles, Ella, you _can't_ come and that's all there is to it!" 

Ella remained unconvinced and Snape found himself floundering, unable to sustain a cogent argument and dissemble at the same time. It was most trying, the way she had of rendering his finely honed skills completely useless. 

"Well I still think you're being very secretive!"

He glanced up at her but her expression was teasing and curious, not suspicious or judgemental. It was clear that she had no idea of his intent. Eventually, after more argument, it was agreed more or less to their mutual satisfaction that they would set off for the main gates together, and then Apparate to the Ministry of Magic, where Snape would arrange for one of the Order, an Auror called Tonks, to accompany Ella to Diagon Alley. She and Snape would each conduct their business and would meet in the snug of the Leaky Cauldron at a prearranged time. It was not an ideal arrangement, from his point of view at any rate, but she had left him little choice, short of telling her the truth, and he had no intention of doing that.

He selected a heavy black travelling cloak from his cavernous wardrobe. The weather had become noticeably cooler over the previous few days and although he knew that London would no doubt be enjoying temperatures several degrees warmer than the Scottish Highlands, still he wanted to be prepared for any inclement conditions, and he strongly urged Ella to do the same. She had smiled to herself and he had the notion that she was agreeing simply to humour him. He frowned. It was bad enough that she should insist on complicating what should have been a simple excursion to the finest dwarfish jewellers in Diagon Alley, turning it into an expedition requiring an almost military precision, and now here she was again, obviously determined to do exactly as she pleased despite his better judgement. He opened his mouth to complain about her blithe attitude, but closed it again abruptly as he realised a truth he had been trying to escape.

She had unmanned him. He was in her thrall. To all intents and purposes, emasculated. And he had allowed it, encouraged it, welcomed it. The question was, what did he intend to do about it? She turned to him and wrapped her arms around his waist, squeezing tight. Surprised, he stroked her hair and they held each other close. Her voice was muffled as she spoke into the folds of his cloak.

"What? What did you say?"

She lifted her head, her eyes shining.

"I said, you make me feel so safe! I feel so- so cared for, so cherished!"

"Well, you are!"

"I love you, Severus."

"Yes, I know. And I love you, too."

"My winter cloak's still in my room. We'll get it on the way."

He bent over her to kiss her tenderly. Perhaps he did not need to do anything, except to love her. 

Nevertheless, he appreciated that there was much about him that she appeared to accept on blind faith alone, and while he could not comprehend why, he knew that he did not want her to delve too deeply into his past activities lest she decide his soul was too black and too damaged.  Inconvenient though it was, perhaps his long term interests would be better served by allowing her this victory. The battle could still be won, if he acted wisely.

Previously, he had been used to making the long walk down to the front gates of Hogwarts with only his thoughts or apprehensions for company. Now, Ella was by his side and he was about to lavish more money on a gift for her than he earned in months. There was exuberance in his step and he had to force himself to slow his pace to fall in with hers. Once they reached the gates they were able to apparate to Diagon Alley and Ella wrapped her arms firmly around his waist once more, disliking the disembodied sensation of apparition, and he enfolded her in his travelling cloak with a surge of protectiveness and affection. 

An instant later they were standing in a windswept London street with scraps of paper and litter whirling and eddying around their feet and an unremarkable old fashioned red telephone box only a few feet away. Keeping his arm around her shoulders the couple walked to the telephone box and went inside, and Ella giggled as the lack of space forced her back into his arms as he lifted the battered old receiver. Identifying themselves to the receptionist, they descended slowly into the Ministry of Magic, sharing a private kiss that Snape vaguely thought would have to last him the whole day, until he saw her again.

A slightly built figure dressed in baggy Muggle clothing, sporting a shock of spiky pink hair, leapt from her seat in the large marble foyer as she saw them approach. She began to wave, and strode forward purposefully, but then tripped over the laces of her fashionable Muggle trainers and fell flat on her face.

"Er…is that Tonks?" Ella asked dubiously, having been apprised of the young Auror's near legendary clumsiness. 

"However did you guess?" he answered dryly as Tonks got to her feet and stood precariously on one leg as she tried to fasten her lace.

"Hello Snape!" she said, hopping towards them and causing Snape to back away a few steps, shielding Ella with an outstretched arm.

"Tonks. This is Ella Redemte, my…er…"

"Girlfriend? Lover? Madwoman?" Tonks grinned, standing up straight at last and extending a hand towards Ella, whose hesitant smile widened as she shook it.

Snape flicked his gaze between the two women and sighed. He had not wanted to frighten Ella by allowing her to witness his conversation with Tonks the previous evening, and the vehemence with which he had impressed upon Tonks the importance of her keeping her few wits about her while Ella was in her charge. He wished he could remind Tonks of his exacting standards now, but a nervous glance from Tonks' violet eyes told him that he probably did not need to. Snape turned to Ella and gazed at her intently, touching her arm tenderly and murmuring a soft goodbye before turning abruptly and heading off down the room towards the lifts. As he waited for the lift attendant to open the inner doors he turned his head and looked back to see Ella lift her arm in a small wave, and he wished that he had kissed her goodbye. 

His appointment with Shacklebolt was brief, and he declined the older man's offer of luncheon in the Ministry's canteen, admitting with a self-deprecating gesture that he had some purchases to make in readiness for the coming Yuletide celebrations. Shacklebolt laughed heartily and clapped him on the back, but the contact was brief and Snape managed not to flinch.

Upon his arrival at Diagon Alley he had made directly for Gringotts. Months had passed since he had last needed to withdraw money from his vault, and his unexpected appearance in the spacious marbled foyer sent several clerks scurrying to an office room behind the long counters, in search of the chief cashier, Griphook. By the time Snape had reached the counter at the far end of the bank, Griphook was sitting behind it at his station, with a stare that, by goblin standards, passed for respectful and welcoming.

"Professor Snape."

"Griphook."

"How may Gringotts be of service today?"

"I wish to visit my vault, to make a withdrawal."

The goblin inclined his head respectfully and snapped his fingers. A junior associate appeared at his side instantly, and gestured for Snape to follow him down a short corridor to a small track on which stood a number of wooden carriages with the letter G embossed on the side of each one. Snape folded himself into the front carriage and the goblin climbed in at his side. A short, mercifully swift journey along dimly lit passageways with heavy metal covered doors at regularly spaced intervals led them to the Snape family vault. The carriage rattled to a halt, and Snape stood awkwardly, stooping under the low roof of the ancient tunnel. The goblin kept a respectful distance as Snape withdrew his wand and muttered the incantation that would release the elaborate locking mechanism of the vault. 

The door was embellished with a knot of silver vipers, with gemstone eyes of green aventurine, and they blinked at Snape slowly as they began to unravel. Once unlocked, the pattern on the door showed a large letter S, and the door swung open. Snape stepped inside and, ignoring the large pile of small grey drawstring bags that made up his monthly salary for the last several years, chose instead a large green velvet bag tied with a golden cord. Peering inside he found it full of galleons, as he had expected, and he concealed it carefully within his travelling cloak before taking a look around to make sure that everything else was in order. Satisfied, he stepped back into the tunnel and the door swung shut behind him, and the busy vipers entangled themselves once more. 

He stood in the doorway of the bank for a few moments before venturing down the worn stone steps, looking up and down the Alley for any sign of Ella and Tonks. He did not doubt that they would, by now, be busily occupied in one or other of the many shops catering for the serious Yule shopper, but it was best to ensure that he was not seen. They were nowhere in sight, and so he hastened down the steps and was soon swallowed up in the crowds. Moments later, he stood at the door of the most famous goldsmiths in the land. Dwarfish, of course; there were no human jewellers their equal and Gemthewer was the finest representative of his trade that Snape had ever come across. Not that he made a point of buying jewellery, except for the odd small piece for his mother in the years prior to her death; but Folin Gemthewer's reputation alone would have ensured Snape's custom.

He rapped sharply three times on the reinforced door, and a small window opened up in it, at waist height. Exasperated at this seemingly extreme demonstration of security, Snape bent low and peered through the window at the dwarf.

"Yes?" it growled. 

"I am Professor Severus Snape. I have an appointment to see Mister Gemthewer about the possible purchase of some items of jewellery."

The dwarf squinted at him suspiciously. Snape sighed.

"_If_ you would be so very kind as to let me in?"

The small window was slammed shut and bolted. Snape straightened, and waited. After a few moments, he heard the sound of other, heavier bolts being scraped back, and the barrels of several locks clicking loudly. The door swung open, and with a quick glance around him to make sure he was not seen, Snape went inside. The concierge secured the door behind them and then, in a gruff baritone, said,

"Come this way, please."

He followed the dwarf from the main sales area of the shop through a stone archway into the spacious room beyond. The dwarf had long greying hair, and sported a short beard plaited into two thick braids and secured with strips of leather. Snape could also see a staff identity badge pinned on to the dwarf's light mail tunic. It was fashioned from a thin slice of striated Welsh slate and picked out in precious stones was the dwarf's given name, Clongwen Stoutheart. Snape raised an eyebrow. He knew that all dwarfs wore beards irrespective of their sex, but he was surprised that this female felt the need to wear armour. It seemed a little excessive when added to the tight security he had seen thus far.

"Wait here."

Snape wandered around the perimeter of the room, examining the contents of the glass- fronted cabinets that lined its walls and held examples of every gemstone that Snape had ever heard of, and several that he had not. After several minutes he heard the familiar growl of Gemthewer and he turned his attention to the archway into the main shop. He heard the scratching of long nails on the stone floor followed by the door being unlocked, and a cheery

"Goodbye Mister Clawfoot, and thank you once again for your valued custom!"

He raised an eyebrow in mild surprise. The furniture trade must be more lucrative than he had imagined, if a cockatrice as famously parsimonious as Clawfoot could be persuaded to part with his galleons without blood being spilled.

He stood expectantly with his hands clasped in front of him, and soon Gemthewer had bustled in with a 

"Professor Snape! On the dot as ever, it's been a while but I remember you as a punctual man, that I do!"

"Mister Gemthewer, thank you, yes," Snape replied smoothly.

"What can I do for you today, Professor? I have some very fine stones just come in from the Africas. Sapphires, rubies, diamonds…and some Indonesian jade, beautifully worked…"

"Emeralds. I require emeralds."

"Ah, of course, of course. Naturally. Now then, let me see…Ah, here they are, over here…" He waddled across to one of the smaller cabinets on the far wall.

"No, not those. I've seen those, and they're too small. And far too dull. I would like to see your…_other _stock."

The dwarf turned to look at him shrewdly.

"Would you, indeed?"

Snape gave a thin smile, and took from within his cloak the velvet bag. He weighed it in his hand and tossed it up gently. The galleons inside jingled unmistakeably and the dwarf's shrewdly appraising expression broke into an avaricious grin. If there was one thing Snape knew that dwarves liked better than jewels, it was gold.

"Come into my office, Professor Snape!"

Snape inclined his head by way of assent, and followed.

Gemthewer's office comprised of a series of narrow interconnecting rooms, low ceilinged and claustrophobic. Stooping a little and wondering how on earth Mr Clawfoot had managed, Snape took a proffered chair next to a large table hewn from an enormous slab of granite. The dwarf missed his home in the underbelly of the Atlas Mountains, that much was evident.

"Emeralds, then, is it?" Gemthewer muttered, half to himself. Snape nodded and the dwarf removed a chenille tablecloth from a nearby corner table to reveal it as a large metal safe. Couching before it and taking a large brass key from his tunic pocket, Gemthewer opened the safe. Moments later, a bag of the most exquisite emeralds Snape had ever seen had been emptied onto the table in front of him. They were flawless. There was one large stone, as large as a robin's egg and of similar shape, and several smaller gems of various size. Maintaining his mask of impassivity, even though his heart was pounding as he imagined the gift that could be wrought from such a stone, he picked up the largest emerald and examined it carefully, gazing deeply into its many facets, closing his fist around it and imagining Ella's smaller hand do the same. He swallowed carefully, and began in a measured voice,

"I require the setting to be of platinum, a trio of serpents holding the stone firmly in their embrace. The chain will be thick and appropriate for the pendant's weight, and it will be twenty two inches long. As for these smaller stones…you will make me a pair of – of- of wedding bands. Platinum, two ouroboros with the gems for eyes. As for this stone…" He picked up a flawless stone the size of his little finger nail, a twin in miniature to the larger one destined to be a necklace, "A ring, in a similar setting to the necklace. I leave the fine detail of the design to you."

He lifted his gaze and looked the dwarf in the eye. 

"You are a very generous man, Professor Snape. These stones are of some considerable value…"

"How much?" Snape asked, seemingly bored now.

Gemthewer produced a scrap of paper from his pocket and a stubby pencil from the depths of his beard, and wrote down a figure, folded the paper over and passed it across to Snape. He took it, looked at the cost, and raised an eyebrow before giving his response.

"For that, I also expect a fine pair of earrings to be made from the remaining stones, and for the pendant's setting to be wrought now, in my presence. I would prefer to have it today."

The dwarf held out his hand.

"A pleasure doing business with you, Professor Snape!"

Snape smiled thinly and shook Gemthewer's hand to seal their agreement, then took out the green velvet bag, counting out on to the table nearly all the coins from it. Gemthewer scooped them up and turned back to his safe to deposit the gold.

"My workshop's just this way, Professor, mind your head now."

The windowless foundry was hot and cramped, and Snape soon found that he needed to remove his cloak and his frock coat. The dwarf was in his natural element, of course, and set to his task with a delight that gradually infected Snape and encouraged him to drop his mask of impassivity and involve himself fully in the creative process. He had already decided that he wanted to use deep magic to charm the pendant, so he began with some preliminary incantations while the platinum was still in its liquid state, imbuing the metal with powerful charms. He would work on the stone in private, at Hogwarts. He knew exactly what he wanted to do, and he needed Ella to be close by so that he could feel her presence as he worked. The thought of her and her probable reaction to his gift filled him with a deep, secret joy, and he watched avidly as the serpent setting for the pendant took shape.

It was late afternoon by the time Snape left Gemthewer's, but the time there had been well spent since the dwarf had not only completed the emerald necklace but had also shown Snape a selection of lacquered trinket boxes inlaid with the finest mother-of-pearl. Snape had chosen one appropriate for the pendant and had sketched a suitable design for the box's lid, parting with the remaining galleons from the green velvet bag on the strict understanding that the box, along with all the other items he had commissioned, would be delivered to Hogwarts within the week. The velvet bag now contained just one item, more valuable to Snape than all the coins that had filled it just a few hours before. 

Flickering gas lamps illuminated the length of Diagon Alley now, and Snape was warmed by their glow as he walked in the dusk's winter chill. Throngs of people still wandered the streets, attracted by colourfully festive window displays and jovial shopkeepers' promises of seasonal goodwill for all, if only they invested in their wares. Snape was immune to their enticements as he quickened his pace. All that he needed to make a perfect Christmas was in his pocket, and its recipient would be waiting for him in the Leaky Cauldron.


	14. Celebration

**Chapter 14**

**Celebration**

****

Ella sat in the nursing chair in Persephone's bedroom, looking out of the window while her baby, tired at last of play, suckled contentedly at her breast. The lake's surface was as still as a millpond and reflected the mountains and foothills as if it were a mirror. There was no wind, but high cloud obscured the sun and made the sky glare white. Ella remembered their picnic of the day before and their precious time alone afterwards, and smiled fondly, touching the emerald at her breast. Severus had reminded her of how much she had enjoyed herself that December day in Diagon Alley with Tonks. The young Auror had proved to be entertaining company, but at the end of the day her heart had leapt to see Severus again. As he had stood outlined in the doorway to the snug of the Leaky Cauldron she had felt him calling to her on some visceral level, and it had taken all of her will not to launch herself at him and insist he take her home at once, or at least somewhere private. She smiled at the memory of his effect on her, realising that she would still want to react that way. 

"Mirror Mirabilis!" she murmured, and looked into the swirling grey shadows in the stone, watching them coalesce to the black that was her husband's frock coat. She tilted the emerald towards the window, the better to see him. He had disappeared into the Potions classroom an hour before, in order to do an inventory of the contents of the students' store cupboards and ensure that everything was ready for the start of the academic year the following week. He held a long scroll of parchment in his left hand and Ella watched as he trailed long white fingers along a shelf, darting his eyes from the scroll to the shelf and back again before looking irritated and crossing to his desk to annotate the parchment with an angry flourish. Ella smiled ruefully and turned her attention to her baby.

"Come on, little you! I think your father needs me."

Persephone obliged, and once Ella had winded and changed her she was ready for a nap. Ella laid her in her cot and performed a simple Monitoring charm, so that she would know when Persephone awoke. Then, she slipped out quietly and went through their rooms until she reached her husband's office and the classroom beyond. 

Severus was nowhere to be seen, but she heard the scraping of cauldrons coming from his private store room, and called to him.

"Severus? Can I help with anything?"

He stalked out of the store room, his mouth set into a thin line and his arms stiff at his sides.

"Only if you can explain how it is that bubotuber pus has been allowed to corrode no less than _three_ of the training cauldrons in the student's cupboard!" he snapped.

"You know I can't, love," she said mildly. "Perhaps one of the students, at the end of last term…"

He rolled his eyes and said sarcastically,

"And here _I_ was, thinking it was me! Well, yes, _obviously _it was a student! I'd like to bet it was Creevey, he is incapable of using the simplest of cleaning spells, and even his skill with a cloth and a sink of water leaves much to be desired!"

Ella did not comment, knowing Creevey to be a particularly trying student as far as her husband was concerned. Instead, she did the one thing that was guaranteed to mollify him. She walked up to him and stood before him, reaching up to cup his cheek with her hand and stroke the side of his mouth with her thumb. He took her in his arms then and bent his head down to brush his lips over hers. She slipped her arms around his back and felt the tension in him ease as he relaxed into her embrace, and she smiled as he tangled his fingers in her hair. After a while, he gathered her closer and she buried her face in him, nuzzling the buttons of his tightly buttoned frock coat. 

"How do you do that?" he mused, his voice rumbling low in his chest . "I think I'll need your help in class this coming year. You can stand over there during lessons, and every time I feel the need to hex somebody, I'll kiss you instead. Do you think the Board of Governors will give you a stipend for that?"

Ella squeezed his waist and laughed. 

"I think I'd pay them to allow me to do it! Now come on, let's get on with this. If we finish it today we'll have the rest of the week free to do whatever you like."

"You _know_ what I like!"

"- And while we work, you can remind me about what a wonderful Christmas we had."

                       ************************************************************

He assumed that there had been happy Christmases in his childhood, but looking back from adulthood, when the bitter memories of so many miserable mockeries of goodwill had coloured his judgement and skewed his recollections, he could remember only a handful with anything approaching fond nostalgia. He was sure his parents had not always been cold, for even as he grew into a young adult there had been moments when he had felt a swell of pride in their approval; but such occasions had been brief, and fleeting, and one of his most persistent memories was of his younger brother's first Christmas, when Snape had first realised that he was no longer the centre of his parents' world. As an adult, it sometimes seemed that each Christmas had been worse than the one before, since as he grew older the friendships and familial and marital ties that he saw all around him grew stronger, while he remained alone. 

Now, as Snape saw Ella waiting for him in the welcoming snug of the Leaky Cauldron, he put such memories from his mind and drank in the sight of her. The warm glow of gaslight cast dancing shadows on the wall behind her, and tinged her hair red, and made her eyes sparkle. He barely noticed as Tonks stood up hurriedly and almost fell over her chair in her efforts to greet him, because he was too busy advancing towards Ella. He sat down beside her and took her hand, gazing into her eyes and murmuring in a low voice,

"Did you have an enjoyable day?"

Ella's eyes dropped to his mouth as he spoke, and when she met his gaze once more his throat constricted. 

"Yes, love, I did…even though you weren't there."

"Ah, so I'm not indispensable? How disappointing," he mocked.

"I didn't say that!" she smiled, and he wanted to kiss her but the bar was very crowded and he could see Tonks grinning inanely at the edge of his peripheral vision. He sat back in his seat and took a draught of the butterbeer Tonks had obligingly ordered.

"Any problems, Tonks?" he asked briskly.

"No, she behaved herself perfectly!" Tonks grinned, earning an amused snort from Ella and a hard stare from Snape. "No, Snape, I didn't notice anything unusual going on. The Ministry hasn't had any intelligence, and besides, there won't be much Death Eater activity this time of year. Not when half their wives are coming here every day to do their Christmas shopping."

Snape was unconvinced and glared at her, but she simply shrugged and finished her mug of butterbeer.

"Gotta go. See you soon, Ella!"

"I hope so, Tonks. Thanks for today."

"Any time." Tonks stood, taking especial care not to overturn her chair this time. She edged past Snape and whispered conspiratorially, "I hope you got her something nice, Snape!" making a hasty exit before Snape could turn round and reply.

"How soon can we go home?" Ella was leaning into him and her hand was resting lightly on his knee. He turned and her face was inches from his, her lips parted and her eyes boring into him. He wanted to wrap himself around her, absorb her, possess her, ravish her. The Leaky Cauldron had never felt so inhibiting or claustrophobic.

"Would now be too soon?" he replied hoarsely, and she stroked along his thigh and stood up, gathering her cloak from the back of her chair. He helped her with it, gazing deeply into her eyes as he fastened the clasp at her throat, and they made for a quiet corner of the bar where he enfolded her in his arms at last, and they Apparated home.

 As soon as they had appeared outside the main gates to the school, he took her face in his hands and bent down to kiss her. She had evidently been as desperate for his embrace as he had been for hers, for her answering passion made him breathless, and despite the cold, which had been made even fiercer by premature dusk, her fingers had begun to unfasten his cloak so that her hands could search for the waistband of his trousers. He had been eager to return them both to the womblike comfort of his rooms, where they could draw the curtains around their bed and shut the rest of the world out while they compensated one another for the hours they had spent apart, but Ella appeared to have other, more immediate, ideas. He groaned as he felt her light touch linger over the bulge that strained for release and relief, and he walked her backwards until her back was pressed into the corner formed by one of the two stone gateposts and the high perimeter wall that abutted it.

"You do know what you've started, don't you?" he growled.

"Yes! Yes, I know!" she gasped, planting feverish kisses over his face while her hands worked to release his throbbing erection from its confines.

"Then you know I will _not_ be denied now?"

"Oh, gods, Severus! I want you! Seeing you enter the bar before, everything else just seemed to disappear and all I could think of was how good it was to see you!"

His head was spinning. Her desire for him never ceased to astound him, and he seized on it with a fervour that quickened her breath and made her clutch at his clothing and pull him even closer. He reached into her cloak and hitched up her long skirt, exposing her bare legs, white in the cold twilight. He slid his chill fingers between her parted thighs, slipping them under her briefs to feel molten heat there already, and she let out a sob of need for him. He looked down at her and lifted his fingers to his mouth, sucking her from them.

"I missed your taste, Ella…" he murmured seductively. "I missed your touch…" he continued, hissing as her hand freed him at last and her own icy fingers encircled his shaft, "And most of all, I missed _this_…"

He lifted her up then and used his body to press her into the wall, and then let her slide slowly down on to him. The contrast between the frigid evening air and the incredible wet heat that was Ella was almost enough to bring him to orgasm, but he bit his bottom lip and held still while they both adjusted to the sensations of tightness and fullness, wetness and hardness, ice and fire. Their breath whirled all around them, whipped away by gusts of frosty wind that held the promise of snow. Twilight darkened her eyes and the flush of her cheeks to shades of grey and blue, but he saw fire there and he could smell the musky flame of her desire fan upward from her core as the persistent breeze sought its own shelter in her skirts. Slowly he began to withdraw from her, holding her up against the wall with his arms. As he thrust back into her again she lifted her legs and wrapped them around him, pulling him deeper inside herself. He groaned and began to set a rhythm, and she met each thrust with one of her own, her trembling hands tangled in his hair and keeping his face close to hers. 

"Severus, oh Severus, yes, yes, oh love, oh Severus, don't stop, oh gods, Severus, _Severus_!"

Her body shuddered uncontrollably as he held her in his arms, and as her internal muscles contracted around him he felt the pressure build deep inside him, and he came into her, his heat surging into her as he buried his face in her neck to muffle his cries. Once it was over he did not move, his body still pinning her to the wall while he struggled to catch his breath, the icy evening fog burning his lungs. Her trembling hands stilled in his hair and he knew she had recovered sufficiently to stand, so he released her with a sigh, slipping out of her and feeling the frosty air blow a chill across the slickness of his penis. Once he was certain that Ella's clothing was in order, he fastened his trousers and his cloak. 

"Can you walk?" he asked, raising an eyebrow enquiringly.

Ella smiled languidly and took his lapel, pulling him to her so that she could bestow a long, lingering kiss. 

"Mmm," she said as she released him. "I still feel a little wobbly, can't imagine why…"

"Well, if we stay here much longer we'll get caught in the snow. And I have plans for us tonight, indoors!"

"Why didn't you say so?" she teased, pushing him away before grasping his hand and pulling him along after her through the gates, back to Hogwarts and the shelter of their curtained bed.

Two days later, he almost lost her.

                                                                               ***

Ella and Hermione had been reorganising his store cupboard after the debacle that was Sirius Black's stewardship, and had decided to go to the Forbidden Forest to replenish his stock of firecracker weeds. He was a little uneasy, but he knew approximately where the plant was to be found and was satisfied that they would not need to venture in too far. Unbeknownst to Ella, he was going to begin work on enchanting the emerald pendant while she was gone, so that on her return, while she slept in the next room, he would be able to use the warmth of her proximity to complete the necessary spells. 

"Make sure you look out for hidden tree roots and snakes," he had said dryly, "since I won't be in the forest to rescue you this time." And then he had kissed her deeply, inhaling her scent until he was drunk on it, absorbing it into himself so that he could keep a small part of her with him. An idle fancy, he knew, but such was her effect on him.

Later, when he had heard Hagrid's booming voice penetrate its panic even as far as the dungeons, the fear that overwhelmed him drove every memory of her physical presence from his mind, and filled it instead with gnawing, aching dread. He had run blindly to the Entrance Hall to find Dumbledore, Lupin, Black and Potter already there, and looked from one to the other uncomprehendingly as they turned their stricken faces to him. 

"What? What's happened? Is it Ella? Well, _is it Ella_?"

"Ella and Hermione, Severus," said Lupin. "Malfoy was in the forest, he's abducted them."

"_What_?"

"We must go now. Take us to the place they disappeared, Hagrid," instructed the Headmaster, a tightness in his voice all that betrayed his inner tension.

They ran until Snape had a stitch in his side and Dumbledore was quite red in the face. Precious minutes were wasted as they recovered, and Snape would have urged them on if only he could have caught his breath. It was Lupin who found the Portkey, recognising it instantly as such and not touching it until all of them were gathered around it. 

They arrived on a desolate plateau and found themselves imprisoned in a silvery hemisphere. It was obviously a trap, but all concerned knew that there had been no choice other than to walk into it. The ward was powerful, but so was Albus Dumbledore and he set to work trying to counteract it. Snape saw at once that Ella was still alive and thanked the Fates for it, but all that he could do was wait and watch while Voldemort did what he would with her. He cursed under his breath and decided on a plan of attack. He would remove the snake, Voldemort's faithful, ferocious pet. He could not allow Nagini to attack Ella, her venom would kill her instantly and there would be no bringing her back. And he would not lose her. 

Suddenly the ward was breached, and he set off at a run, wand arm outstretched. He only got as far as 

"Avada – " when he heard Ella yell,

"Expelliarmus!" and his own wand flew from his hand straight into hers. The force of her spell threw him backwards and he lay on his back for a moment, winded. He stared at her in disbelief but everything was happening too fast for her to acknowledge his anger.

 "Harry, call off the snake!" Hermione yelled, as Voldemort turned to Ella and used Cruciatus, making her double over in pain. She lay on the ground, clutching her stomach, and turned her head to check that Snape was all right. He was concerned for her, knowing only too well Voldemort's skill with Unforgivables, but he simply could not comprehend her treacherous behaviour and his eyes were on fire with rage. He would extract a full explanation from her if they managed to get out of there alive, and he hoped that she would have a damned good reason for her actions.

Nagini had turned towards Harry and cocked her huge head to one side as he spoke to her. At the same time Hermione and Lupin had managed to petrify Malfoy and Wormtail who now lay stiffly on the ground. Enraged, Voldemort was surrounded by Dumbledore, Black, Lupin and Harry who were all pointing their wands at him, preventing him from reviving his Death Eaters.

Snape got to his feet shakily while Hermione half dragged Ella over to him. He snatched back his wand angrily. Now was neither the time for explanations nor for tearful reunions, however much he might deserve one and crave the other. 

He took his place with the others, behind Potter who was by now facing Voldemort once more. This time Potter had a little experience behind him in the shape of four powerful wizards; or rather, he corrected himself grimly, two powerful wizards alongside the mediocre Lupin and Black. Arcs of golden and silver flame spurted from each wand, forming a single incandescent ball of fire that, eventually, consumed the Dark Lord and sent his essence circling around their heads in impotent rage before it disappeared with a rumble, along with Nagini, into a fissure in the rock.

When the rumbling stopped, all was quiet. The roiling clouds had disappeared to reveal endless white sky. There was no sun, and no shadow, but it was over, and Ella was safe. He caught her as she sank to her knees, enfolding her in his embrace, stroking her hair as she began to sob hysterically with relief. Gods, his heart was full. How had he come to love her so very much that he thought it would break simply because she was crying?

"I hope you can explain your behaviour just now," he murmured, trying to keep his emotions in check by remembering his anger and resorting to a most justifiable sternness. 

"We can explain everything!" insisted Hermione, "But first we need to get out of here. Look, it's degrading again, we don't have much time!"

Dumbledore took out of his robes a large knitted tea cosy and summoned them all to stand around him, along with the immobile bodies of Pettigrew and Malfoy. When everybody was touching the tea cosy, he said firmly, "Hogwarts hospital wing!"

Snape sat on the floor of the Infirmary with Ella in his arms. She was still weeping and shaking uncontrollably and his mind was racing as he tried to imagine the depravities that Voldemort could have inflicted upon her to cause her so much trauma. Poppy Pomfrey was her usual over-zealous self, and he had to speak to her sharply when she tried to prise Ella's weeping form from his arms.

"Get off, woman, can't you see she's hysterical?" he snapped, glaring at Madam Pomfrey unpleasantly.

"She needs to be moved. I need to examine her."

"No, what she _needs_ is to be left to me. Leave her!"

He would not let her go. He found, in fact, that he could not. He could no more free her from his embrace and allow her into someone else's care than he could stop loving her.

Eventually, after murmuring quiet words of encouragement into her hair, Snape helped Ella to her feet and then scooped her up in his arms, carrying her over to the nearest bed, where he sat down in the chair beside it, holding her closely to him on his lap. She curled up in his arms and buried her face in his neck with a shuddering sigh as she wound her arms tightly around it. He closed his eyes and tried to relax, thankful that she was safe. He opened all his senses to her, letting her scent soothe him, her small sniffs reassure him, her weight across his legs anchor him. He looked down at her face and kissed the salt tears from her cheek, and he let out a ragged breath as he accepted at last that all was well; all was well for she was safe, and she was his.

Soon afterwards, Madam Pomfrey bustled across with a sleeping draught for Ella. Snape took it from her and spoke to Ella softly. Not once had she emerged in all the time they had been sitting there, but now she released her vice-like grip on his neck and he was able to look down into her eyes. Her face was tear-stained and swollen, but her eyes shone clear green from red-rimmed lids. She needed him desperately, and she had never been more beautiful.

"Drink this, love. It'll help you sleep." Her brows knitted a little and she tried to edge closer to him. "I'll stay with you, I'll be here all the time," he assured her, brushing her forehead lightly with his lips. She took the potion, and only when her eyelids drooped in sleep did they break their gaze. 

Snape held her for a long time while she slept, going over and over the day's events in his mind and unable to fathom her behaviour. At length, once his arms' protestations were too insistent to be ignored any longer, he laid her on the narrow hospital bed and climbed on beside her, holding her close as she had done him only weeks before. 

He knew beyond any shadow of doubt that no matter what she said to explain her behaviour, he would love her. He was overwhelmed with that emotion, and he had never felt so weak, so helpless, and so desperately needy. He was in her thrall, devoted and disarmed, and he had gone willingly. And yet, at the same time, he felt more powerful, and more potent, than he had done in years. She brought out the best in him, he felt. He could protect her and from now on keep her safe, and care for her always. Thus comforted, he drew her closer to him, and slept. 

The next day had been an ordeal for them both. Ella's physical condition was good, but her experience had left her tearful and nervous, and Snape wished that he could simply take her back to his rooms and help her to forget. He had long suspected his role in her family's deaths, had been convinced that he remembered the encounter, but to hear recounted how Voldemort had so graphically illustrated it for her made his stomach churn with fear. How could she still care for him now, knowing what he was? Her need for his physical closeness was apparent, and he was glad of it for otherwise he would have been frantic for some sign of how she felt. As it was, he held her and comforted her, and she nestled into his strength. Later that day, when he was parted from her so that Minister Fudge could irritate him for a few hours, he paced Dumbledore's office like a caged animal, desperate to escape to Ella. And then later, when finally they were alone and he could claim her for his own once more, he cried bitter tears of regret that she simply kissed away.

He could not comprehend the extent of her love for him. Even though he knew his for her to be more than its equal, still he scarcely believed it. She had seen him die. She had been shown proof that he had orphaned her, then she had seen him die, and she had grieved and was grieving still. For his death, not her family's. He did not deserve her, he was certain of that, and he would do everything within his power to ensure that he went to his grave still trying to make amends.

                                                                                 ***

Term ended, and the school was blissfully quiet. Most of the students went home for the holidays, thankfully, and many of the staff spent at least part of the break away from the school visiting family. This year was no exception in that respect. In every other way, however, Snape knew that the holiday could not be more different, because this year he had Ella.

Finding the time to work on enchanting her emerald had been difficult, particularly since the episode with Voldemort had left her unwilling to let him out of her sight. He exulted in her dependence on him and even encouraged it by pandering to her every whim, since that way he could ensure that she would not leave him. Manipulative, he knew, but then he was Head of Slytherin House, and not above stooping to a little psychology when it suited his purpose. And besides, he was merely ensuring that their relationship was balanced. It would not do for her to depend on him less than he depended on her.

A few days before Christmas, and several days later than Mister Gemthewer had promised, much to Snape's annoyance, a large parcel arrived via owl post. He explained to Ella that the package was from an apothecary in Knockturn Alley, and that it contained several restricted substances that he needed to process and decant that day. He lied with the practised ease of a seasoned dissembler and felt no shame in it, for he was deceiving her for her own good. She accepted what he told her without question and agreed to take a walk around the grounds with Lupin instead of spending the morning with him, so he accompanied her to the Entrance Hall and took her face in his hands for a searching, scorching kiss as he bade her goodbye. Slightly dazed, she left on the werewolf's arm, and he smirked to see her looking back over her shoulder as she descended the steps into the snow. 

Snape carried the memory of that kiss back with him to the dungeons and went straight to the locked store cupboard where the emerald pendant was hidden. He needed to perform one of the spells while the chemicals in his body still churned at her taste. He placed the jewel on his work bench and took out his wand, holding it to his heart and his temple as he recited various spells. Then he placed the tip of the wand to the stone and began the final incantation. Power surged around him, a magical breeze lifting his long black locks and whipping them across his face while a low thrumming began to pulse through him. Purple light suffused the green of the emerald, coiling from the tip of the wand around and then into the depths of the jewel, and he bent his head in willing surrender of himself and his independence to Ella. Once all the spells had been performed, she would be able to look into the emerald and see him, no matter where he was or what he was doing. He hoped she would realise how precious a gift he was giving her, for he was offering up to her himself and everything he ever did from now on.

The light faded, and the emerald glowed brilliant green once more. Snape sighed and mopped his brow, then turned his attention to the package from Gemthewer. The black lacquered box was exactly as he had specified it should be, and he was more than satisfied with the execution of his raven and serpent design. A small pouch contained three further boxes, one containing a pair of elaborate emerald earrings, one an exquisite emerald ring with which he would propose marriage, and the other, which he opened with trembling hands while swallowing nervously, a pair of platinum and emerald wedding bands. He took them out and examined them closely. Gemthewer was well deserving of his reputation. The ouroboros, one slightly thicker than the other but identical in every other way, circled into themselves, swallowing their tails, their emerald eyes all-knowing.

Snape replaced the rings and the earrings in the pouch, and concealed them at the back of the store cupboard, locking it carefully. He would give Ella the pendant and hope that her reaction to it was all that he prayed it would be, and then he would wait for a suitable opportunity to ask her to be his wife. Thrilled and terrified at the prospect, he concealed the emerald in his breast pocket and set off in search of her.

                                                                                 ***

Christmas Day surpassed all his expectations and in the dark weeks that followed it shone like a blazing beacon, a bittersweet reminder of all that he had loved and lost.

He had awoken that morning to the exquisite sensation of Ella's tongue dipping in and out of his navel before working its way lower until it was circling his shaft, which hardened rapidly as she lavished her attentions on it. He could manage no more than a sleepy

"Mmph? Aah, mmm," and he stroked Ella's hair, tangling his fingers in it. He could feel her teeth as they strafed his length and he arched his back, his sleep-fuddled mind trying to process the sensations as his body sang its bliss. She withdrew him, only to replace the unbearably intense suckling with an equally excruciating treatment from her teasing tongue which flicked and tormented. 

"Oh, Gods, Ella!"

She sniggered and lowered her head once more. Ah, the witch! He looked down and the sight of his hands holding it as it bobbed up and down between his legs was enough to send him over the edge. Time seemed to hold its breath as he climaxed, and once she had released him let out a ragged gasp, as did he, so that before he knew it her mouth covered his and her full length covered him. She felt wonderful, and he wrapped his arms around her.

 "Merry Christmas, Severus" she said, and he smiled softly, winding a lock of her hair around his fingers.

"Why, was that my present?" he asked.

"No! But look around you."

His eyes widened in surprise as he took it all in. She had decorated his room while he slept. He had already noticed the huge garland of mistletoe above the bed, but as he looked around he saw that she had festooned the walls and ceiling with hundreds of small white lights, which he assumed represented the night sky. Boughs of holly and garlands of ivy had been arranged around the mantel, and a huge Christmas tree stood by the door, decorated all in blue velvet and crystal. Her colours, he noted with a rueful sigh.

"It's very…festive," he said uncertainly. "Er…I never usually bother."

"Well, I'd sort of guessed that!" she said with a wry smile. "But do you approve?"

"On the whole…yes. The mistletoe's a nice touch, but not really necessary…" He kissed her deeply, to prove his point. "I got you a present!" he added with a frown, suddenly nervous. "I hope you like it."

He felt as if her acceptance of him, and of all that he had to offer, hinged on her reaction to this gift. All at once his confidence in his own good taste wavered, and he wondered whether or not his choice of gift would be acceptable. Women were notoriously fickle creatures, and the giving of such a meaningful present was not something in which he was well versed.

She slid off him so that he could get up, and he crossed the room to his dresser, opening the top drawer and taking out the parcel he had secreted there the day before. Passing the tree, he did not feel it politic to comment on its colours, so instead settled for a raised eyebrow, to which she simply smiled happily.

He jumped back into bed and handed her the package, saying hesitantly,

"I enchanted it myself."

She took it from him and tore open the wrapping to reveal the small black lacquered box, inlaid with the intertwined serpent and raven design. He hoped the weight of symbolism would not be lost on her.

"It's beautiful!" she breathed. _So far, so good._

"Open it!" he urged.

Inside was the emerald, on its thick chain of solid gold.

"Oh, _Severus_!" 

She certainly seemed to like it, and the tight knot in his stomach unravelled a little as he urged her to look more closely. 

"Mirror mirabilis!" he said as he passed his hand over it, and she peered into its depths curiously.

"What _is_ this?" 

"It's- well, it's like a magic mirror," he explained. "I know how fond you are of Muggle literature, and I thought you'd be able to relate to that fairy story about the girl who for some inconceivable reason falls in love with a beast and saves him from himself. He gave her a magic mirror too."

"You aren't a beast, Severus. You never were."

So trusting, and so accepting. Despite all that she knew of him, still she saw only the best in him. He would work hard to ensure that she never changed her opinion. There were things she could never be allowed to know. 

"That's a moot point, Ella," he murmured. "Anyway, whenever you pass your hand on it and say the correct incantation, you'll be able to see me. Wherever I am, whatever I'm doing."

She looked at him incredulously.

"You mean I'll be able to _spy_ on you?" 

"I prefer to think of it as watching over me," he replied seriously. Her face crumpled and she snaked her arm around his neck and drew him to her. 

"Thank you…" 

Her kiss was so tender and so searching, and he sank into it, drowning happily in her love, knowing that he had done well. It was quite evident, too, that she understood the significance of the gift, for one so private as he.

Too soon, she pulled away from him, and said,

"I have something for you too. It's under the tree."

"Ah yes, the Ravenclaw themed tree!" he said acerbically, so relieved that his gift had been well received that he felt much more comfortable reverting to type than he had done a few minutes earlier. "Oh well, at least the tree itself is green!"

With another quick kiss, she practically vaulted off the bed and eagerly fetched his present. He was in no particular hurry to open it, even though he was curious to see what it was, because he was still basking in her happiness and feeling particularly smug. Sitting cross-legged on the bed, he began to unwrap it methodically, making Ella bounce up and down on the bed impatiently.

"Come on, Severus, it'll soon be _next_ Christmas!"

"I want to _savour_ this," he said, teasing gently. "A gift from the woman I love is something to be treasured, right from the outset. And that includes unwrapping it!"

He stole a quick glance at her, enjoying her frustration at his slowness and the small exertion of power over her that it signified. He adored her, but that did not mean he wished to relinquish all control to her.

When the wrapping finally fell off, however, he forgot all about his carefully maintained façade. He was lost for words. He simply looked at it, ran his long fingers over it, turned it this way and that, and then set it down on the bed. It was a sculpture, and he knew without asking that the two figures that comprised it, one of black marble and one of deep blue lapis, represented him and Ella. The figures stood face to face, entwined.

"It's beautiful," he whispered huskily, and he enfolded her in his arms, kissing her so deeply that they both had to catch their breath when she finally broke off to take his face in her hands.

 "Severus, I need to show you something. Come on over to the fire, I'll put it on the table."

He sat in the old leather chair, and Ella knelt at his feet on the rug, one hand on each of the two figurines that made up the piece.

"Vivat!" 

His eyes widened in amazement as he watched colour flood through both figures until they had become perfect miniatures of the two of them, kissing, embracing, dancing, moving around one another with a fluid grace that was almost like music. 

He gaped at it, open-mouthed.

"Do you like it?" 

"Beyond words," was all the reply he could make.

After a few minutes, the charm wore off and the two figures, the blue and the black, were still once more, this time locked in a close embrace. Snape sat back in his chair with a sigh, looking at her in wonderment. He was amazed. 

"Where on earth did you find it? I've never seen anything like it before."

"It was from an old friend. I owled him to tell him what I wanted, and when I got it, I enchanted it myself."

"An old friend?" he said, tensing with jealousy.

"Yes, a Muggle, but a very talented one. I met him in Italy, years ago."

 "Hmph."

"What?"

"Is he an ex?"

"No! Good grief, he must be ninety by now! I was working for a gallery, saw some of his work. It was beautiful. Haunting. I asked to meet him, and he told me his life story! We became great friends, and

he told me the most romantic story I'd ever heard. Till ours, of course!"

He looked at her doubtfully. He did not subscribe to the popular notion of romance as being an ideal to which he should aspire. Nevertheless, her story intrigued him, and he was keen to know the provenance of such an astounding gift.

"He married young, and he and his wife were everything to each other," Ella continued. "He was your typical struggling artist type, they were penniless, but it didn't matter. He would sculpt her, all the time, nothing but her. Then she became ill, and there was no cure. When she died, he was lost. Helpless." 

He shivered. He could well imagine how desolate his life would be without Ella. If he had known loneliness before, it would pale into nothing in comparison to the emptiness he would feel if he ever lost her. He stroked her bare shoulder, needing to touch her and reassure himself that she was real, and she leaned into his touch as she spoke on.

"He was surrounded by memories of her and he threw himself into creating a life-sized sculpture of her, the ultimate celebration of their love. It was his greatest ever work, and he described what happened as a miracle. Well, I suppose it was."

"Why, what happened?" he asked curiously.

"The stone came to life one day, he said. He had his love back, for a little while. Now, I don't know if it was some latent magical ability he had, which his grief tapped into, or even whether it was her ghost, or just his imagination, but he swears it happened. And it gave him the strength to carry on. So when I wanted a symbol of our love, I couldn't think of a better person to go to."

She had climbed into his lap as she spoke, and his arms encircled her waist, pulling her close so that he could bury his face between her breasts. He could not bear to look into her eyes, his emotions were too strong, too raw, too frightening for him to confront their reflection in her eyes. She kissed the top of his head as she stroked his hair, and he knew beyond any doubt that she understood.

"I just don't know what to say," he murmured. 

They sat in a loving, contemplative silence for a long time. Snape loved holding her in his arms, and when she held him in such a way that his face could nuzzle into the deep valley of her breasts he could think of only one activity he enjoyed more. However, he was about to suggest that they return to their bed to indulge in that very activity when she suddenly scrambled to her feet and ran to the bathroom, heaving. He followed her and held her shoulders as she bent over the sink.

"Ella, what on earth…are you alright?"

"Mmph- fine- I'm fine. Water."

He poured a glass and hovered uncertainly at her side. He had no idea what had caused this and was concerned that her ordeal at Voldemort's hands had been more severe than even he had feared.

"I was just- nervous. Nervous about my present to you," she explained.

"And you made yourself feel _sick_? Good grief, what sort of an ogre do you take me for? As if I could be anything less than entranced…Ella, it's wonderful, it really is! Wait here!" he finished, and strode out of the bathroom purposefully. He felt much better now that she had enlightened him, and he had a potion that was guaranteed to make her feel better. Later on, as they breakfasted on smoked salmon and scrambled eggs before the fire, he congratulated himself on his skill and the comfort it brought him to know incontrovertibly that he had the power to make her well.

The morning and most of the afternoon of that perfect day passed in a flash. They spent much of the time poring over a new book of spells, lying on their stomachs before the fire, and Snape felt more contented than he had ever been. They read together in companionable silence, grunts of assent the only form of communication necessary to indicate that they were ready for the pages to be turned. Occasionally one or other of them would comment on the merits or otherwise of a particular incantation and its practical application, but otherwise they simply bent their heads together and wallowed in their mutual enjoyment. The sole interruption to their concentration was the large box of Honeyduke's Best Chocolates, a gift for them both from Albus Dumbledore, which lay beside them enticingly and served as a rather indulgent luncheon.

"We should get dressed," Snape suggested eventually.

"And why is that?" 

"Because we ought to show our faces to our…_friends_…and wish them a merry Christmas. And because snowballing on the front lawn is an old Hogwarts tradition."

"Well, I didn't think you admitted to having any _friends_, and I certainly didn't think that you ever did something because it was the _sociable_ thing to do!" Ella laughed, rolling over on to her back and untying her dressing gown wantonly. "Besides, you haven't been _sociable_ enough with _me_ yet!" 

The firelight cast dancing shadows over her naked form, and he watched it play in her eyes. He pushed the forgotten spell book to one side and leaned over to kiss her, letting his hair fall over her cheeks. He parried her tongue with his and groaned as hers teased its way into his mouth, sucking on it gently and licking it with his own. He shifted position until he looked down at her, resting on one elbow so that his free hand could caress her satiny skin. He stroked her full breasts and she arched into his hand, whimpering with need as his hand travelled lower to brush against her dampened curls. She was always so responsive, he mused, and the simple truth of her insatiable desire for him never ceased to amaze him. He found it difficult to believe that anyone could find him so irresistible, particularly someone as shining as she. He shivered suddenly, feeling cold foreboding dance across his back. He knew he could not bear to lose her now. Not now, not ever.

"_Ella_…" he breathed as her legs parted and he felt her wetness, aching to feel her wrapped around him. As if she knew what he was thinking, she pulled the bed sheet from his waist, loosening it so that it fell away, and he wound her leg around his hip, slipping inside her with a shuddering sigh. Each pulled the other as close as they could, and so it began; arching, rocking, caressing, tasting, sharing, driving, grinding, loving. He moved on top of her now, her hair spread out all around her and her eyes almost as black as his in the firelight, and he exulted in the look in her eyes and the incoherence of her moans, but then she was saying his name, over and over, and he knew what that meant so he let himself go and as she screamed, he screamed with her, a white hot rush of passion and power flooding into her, invading her, filling her, possessing her.

He fell on to her, breathless, and her arms came up around him and held him to her, clasping his head to her cheek, refusing to allow him to roll off her. He feared she would be unable to breathe but allowed her to insist, for he had the wild notion that he could imprint himself on her in this way, mould his shape into hers so that no-one else would ever fit to her the way he did.

A long time later, he finally slid from her and they lay together side by side, looking up at the fairy lights twinkling around the vaulted ceiling. He was deep in thought, wondering when would be the most propitious time for him to propose marriage, for he needed to cleave her to him for all time. He craved the reassurance of knowing that she would be his for evermore and had the idea that his day could be more perfect only if he asked her and she said yes, but then he realised that if she were to say no – 

"What is it, Severus?" She interrupted his thought processes then, and he said the first thing that came into his head, which was at least a partial truth.

"Hmm? Oh, nothing. Trying to remember another Christmas when I felt happy. I have to go back a long way."

She squeezed his hand, and he sensed that he had unwittingly reminded her of her own past Christmases. He smiled tightly, gritting his teeth as he realised that his ill-chosen words now meant that he would have to postpone his proposal. It would not be prudent to bring up the subject of marriage when she was remembering her family, since his part in their deaths would surely influence her answer. Instead, he broke the newly sombre mood, saying, 

"Come on, I feel the need to injure someone! I think a few well-aimed snowballs in the direction of Lupin and Black might do the trick!"

She gave him a dark look severe enough to rival any of his own, and he sniggered.

"You'd better leave your wand here, if you're in that sort of mood! No magic, Severus! It's all meant to be in fun!"

She obviously had no idea of the purpose of these annual snowball fights, and he sighed as he pulled her to her feet.

"Well, it's only fun if I win!"

She wore his scarf. She had a cloak of midnight blue, but told him that her old school scarf had been lost years before. He gave her a wolfish smile and produced his own from the depths of his wardrobe, wrapping it around her neck and pulling her to him to claim her lips possessively. She was his, his alone, and even though everybody was well aware of that fact, he saw no harm in emphasising it. He felt immensely smug as they emerged from the school on to the front lawn, squinting as the bright winter sunlight reflected off the snow-covered lawns, and made a point of stopping her descent of the steps into the snow to adjust its folds under her chin. 

Satisfied that Black had noticed their arrival, he smirked at the prospect of this year's snowball fight. Ella had said that he ought not to use magic, but technically speaking he saw no reason not to cast a Speed and Accuracy spell on Ella, so that every snowball she threw would meet its target with painful precision. She need not know, and he himself could say, hand on heart, that he threw his own snowballs with no more help than his own excellent hand to eye co-ordination. Lupin greeted Ella enthusiastically and Snape frowned at him, then Black loped up to them and swept Ella off her feet, even daring to kiss her cheek. Snape glowered, unnoticed as he murmured the incantations that would ensure Black had several painful visual reminders of that year's snowball fight. Snape hoped that he bruised easily.

Dumbledore soon had their small group divided into two teams, one of which comprised Snape, Ella, Lupin and himself, and the other Black, Potter, Weasley and his sister. Snape's eyes narrowed as he watched Black wink at Ella before jogging across the lawn to join his team in the making of a large supply of snowballs to start off the fight. As they moulded and packed the snow in their gloved hands, Snape decided to use the opportunity to discuss tactics with Ella.

"Why don't you concentrate on Black, love?" he suggested casually. "I'll tackle Weasley. He's tall, his throwing arc will be higher than Potter's or Black's, I'll be more equally matched to him."

"Well, in that case shouldn't I concentrate on Ginny?" Ella asked, smiling at him excitedly. He noticed that the tip of her nose was already turning red and he had an urge to kiss it. Instead, he smiled indulgently and said,

"Yes, that's very true, but Black's too much of a gentleman to give you a hard time. He'll go easy on you, and then we'll have the advantage!"

"Oh, Severus, isn't it a little unfair to scheme like that?"

_Oh, you have no idea!_ he thought, but simply lifted an eyebrow and cocked his head, saying

"We Slytherins do have a reputation to live up to, Ella!"

The snowball fight turned out to be most satisfying. Every ball Ella threw hit its mark, and soon Black was hopping about the lawn clutching at various of his limbs, half laughing, half groaning with pain. Ella suspected nothing and was helpless with laughter at his antics, so Snape took it upon himself to punish Black for being so amusing, and left Weasley, Potter and Ginny for Dumbledore and Lupin to sort out while he added his force to Ella's. Unfortunately after a while it became apparent that he and Black appeared to have forgotten the spirit of the occasion, and Ella and Lupin had to do their best to intervene in what had been turning into an enjoyably vicious duel. 

Fortunately for Black, Hagrid arrived with Miss Granger, and a ceasefire was called as everyone welcomed her back into the fold. Snape watched as Lupin greeted her warmly, and the elation that shone from the werewolf's face struck such a chord with Snape that he pulled Ella to him and buried his nose in her hair, leaving his arm draped across her shoulders as they stood ankle deep in the powdery snow.

Much to his chagrin, Miss Granger's arrival prompted the Headmaster to call a halt to the proceedings and suggest that it might be time to go inside for dinner. He was sure Black had something to do with the fact that a ridiculous hat with a huge pink ostrich feather had flown out of Snape's exploding cracker and tried to arrange itself fetchingly on his head, but since it was he, Snape, who was Ella's choice and the one able to spend dinner running his fingers through her hair, knowing what promise was written in her eyes, he rather thought that he had the last word. And when she turned to him and kissed him, her face bright with love, and said,

"Merry Christmas!" he was able to say, in all honesty and with all possible meanings,

"Yes, it is."


	15. Deterioration

**Chapter 15**

**Deterioration**

****

Their combined efforts ensured that the classroom was prepared to Severus' satisfaction by the time the luncheon bell rang. An enquiring eyebrow raised at his wife resulted in a wide smile and a sharp clap of her hands. A wide-eyed house elf popped out of nowhere and wrung its hands ingratiatingly, looking between him and Ella nervously.

"We'll take lunch here today please, Mucky. Whatever's been prepared will be fine."

"Yes, Missus Professor Snape, miss. Mucky will bring it straight away!"

"No, Mucky, don't bring it yet. Bring it in exactly half an hour. Not a minute less, _do I make myself clear_?"

"Yes, Mister Professor Snape, sir, not a minute less, sir!" The house elf, terrified by the menace in the Potions master's voice, cowered and scurried away across the classroom before disappearing with a pop. 

"Really, Severus, did you have sound _quite_ so threatening?" Ella admonished.

"You know as well as I do that they like a firm hand. And I have a reputation to uphold," he said dismissively. "And besides," he continued in a low, seductive voice, taking slow, deliberate steps towards her, "I don't think you'll want us to be disturbed for a while…"

A knowing smile spread across her face and she backed away from him until she made contact with the front edge of his desk.

"Whatever do you mean, Mister Professor Snape, sir?"

"I expect this next academic year to be particularly trying," he said, reaching her and planting one hand either side of her on the desk, leaning over her and forcing her to arch backwards a little. "I've decided that my temperament might prove a little less…_volatile_…if I can make a more pleasant mental association when I am forced to sit at my desk and tolerate hour upon hour of ineptitude rather than delight in the much more pleasurable company of my family."

"I still don't know what you have in mind, Professor," Ella replied disingenuously, her eyes smouldering as her gaze flicked from his down to his lips, and back again.

A feral smile flashed across his face and he swooped to capture the soft skin of her neck with his mouth. He nipped and sucked the smoothness there and she gasped, tangling her fingers in his hair. He pulled back to look her in the eye once more, and she found she could not move when pinioned by that piercing black stare.

"Then let me explain in words of no more than one syllable, and perhaps you will understand," he continued, his familiar sarcasm dripping from his voice and making her chest rise and fall with increasing rapidity. "I want to make love to you now, here, on my desk. So that when I sit here in front of my class, I can think of you, spread out in front of me, coming for me."

Ella's eyes had widened at his words, and now they danced as she said breathlessly,

"You used more than one syllable just then."

His eyes narrowed, but she was enjoying the game and she saw his lip curl slightly as he tried not to smile. His hands went to her sides and he lifted her easily onto the desk.

"Are you trying to provoke me, Ella?"

"Oh, I _do_ hope so!"

His kiss was sudden, hot and hard, and she started in surprise before wrapping her arms more tightly around his neck. Stepping closer still, he stood between her parted legs and pressed into her, so that she moaned instinctively and gripped his hips between her thighs. He was ready, she could feel the hard rod of his arousal press against her groin, and the sudden flood of heat between her legs told her that she was, too. He ran his hands underneath her skirt, pushing it up out of the way so that he could press his palm against her mound, his long fingers exploring her and easing underneath her briefs to make her gasp in excitement as she tried to press herself into his hand. She pulled at the waistband of his trousers with an urgency that made him smile against her lips as he murmured,

"Divestio!" and their clothes disappeared, reappearing folded over the back of Snape's chair. "Mmm, that's better!" he said, grabbing her buttocks and pulling her closer until the tip of his engorged penis caressed her slick folds.

"Oh, gods!" she moaned before plunging her tongue into his mouth as he palmed her breast, squeezing and pinching her nipple, and she wriggled against him until he felt himself begin to leak with desire. "Stop!" she whispered.

"What?"

She placed her hands on his shoulders and pushed him away, looking at him through lust-drunk hooded eyes, and slipped off the desk. Her breasts were brushing his chest now, but he had seen the familiar sign of her arousal clearly illustrated by the droplets of white pearling on each nipple and so he did not know why she wanted him to stop.

"I want to do it this way. Over your desk." She smiled lasciviously and turned around, leaning over the desk so that her nipples brushed against it, bracing herself with her hands. She looked back over her shoulder and raised her eyebrow. "_This_ will give you something different to remember!"

_It would indeed_, he thought grimly.

"No, not like that," he said slowly, shaking his head.

"Why not," she cajoled, opening her legs and inching backwards so that his rapidly diminishing erection nudged at her buttocks.

He looked down at her, down at the tight, puckered hole that was her anus, and frowned. He knew she did not intend for him to take her there, it was something they had never yet done, but even so, the position reminded him of- other times. His gaze travelled a little further and he saw her glistening folds, and he reminded himself that this was Ella, his beloved wife, and only she could exorcise his demons. She was not some faceless Muggle, nor was she his younger self, filled with trepidation and disgust as he was violated over and over.

He sighed heavily and tried to banish the horrific memories from his mind. He would make love to her over his desk. It was what she wanted, and as he ran his hands over her back, along the curves of her hips and round to the front where her breasts hung down and rested on his desk, he knew that it was what he wanted too. He needed it. He lifted her heavy round breasts in his hands, leaning over her now as he stretched, and his erection returned as he kneaded and stroked them. This was Ella, he reminded himself, and he needed to be inside her. 

Her breasts were leaking copiously now and he knew that she would leave her scent on his desk. The thought was exhilarating and he almost looked forward to sitting there in front of a classroom full of students, his fingers tracing the place where her essence had soaked into the wood. He licked and kissed her back, and then stood straighter, putting a hand on each of her hips and pushing himself gently into her inner folds. It felt different this way, tighter, and he penetrated only a little way before he stopped to let them both adjust to the sensation.

"Severus…" she moaned. "It feels so good…"

He held her hips and looked down at the place where their bodies joined to watch himself push gently inside her. Her languorous groan was all the encouragement he needed then, and he threw back his head and was about to give himself up to the sensation when he had a sudden feeling of panic, and he looked down at her back. He needed to see her face, and look into her eyes, and the need was overwhelming. He grabbed a handful of her hair, and as he leaned down over her again he pulled her head backwards, too forcefully, he knew, but he could not stop himself. She gasped in surprise, but saw the rawness in his eyes and offered her lips to him. 

He kissed her hungrily, all the time pinning her gaze to his, and she calmed him and soothed him without even knowing what she did, and he relaxed into his passion for her once more, surrendering to the rhythm his body was setting, over and over until his mind emptied of everything except Ella, and the blinding brightness of his love for her cast out all the shadows of his past.

With his free hand he reached down between her legs and found her inner thighs slick with her arousal. His fingertips brushed along the underside of his shaft as it slid slowly into her, and then he found her nub, erect and free from its protective hood. He closed his eyes and ran a finger lightly up one side, not wanting to over-stimulate it when she was obviously so aroused. She let out a sobbing moan and hissed his name,

"_Severus_!" and he repeated the action, very gently, until he felt her begin to tremble beneath him. Her hips had been rocking back against his in time with his thrusts, but now as her climax neared, he released her hair and put one hand on her hip to steady her. She came wildly, thrashing underneath him before prostrating herself on his desk and muffling her cries in the ancient oak, and as he watched her and felt her spasm around his shaft, he felt his balls begin to throb and the pressure build inside him, until he was filling her with his essence and all that he felt for her and all that she meant to him, and it was the sweetest agony of longing he had ever felt. 

When it was over he collapsed on top of her and buried his face in her shoulder, trying to blink back his tears. She groaned and lay still, feeling his length soften and shrink inside her until it slipped out and he let out a sigh which sounded to Ella more like a sob. She felt something trickle along her shoulder blade and tried to push herself up from the desk. He stood slowly, and she turned round unsteadily to see him with his head bowed and his hair curtaining half his face.

"Severus?" she said, reaching up to brush a tear from his cheek. "Love, what's wrong?"

He shook his head violently and pulled her to him, with one arm around her back and the other tangled in her hair, pressing her head close to his chest so that he could bury his face. She embraced him and closed her eyes, enjoying his musky scent and the smoothness of his skin but wishing she could look into his eyes. She knew that something momentous had happened between them but she feared to admit to herself its significance.

"I – I don't know if I can tell you. I've never – not like that – " 

He struggled to get the words out and she stroked his back reassuringly. 

"Before,_ I_ was always the one who - so impersonal, better that way! I didn't want to look at him while he was – oh, _Ella_!"

She felt him begin to tremble and his shoulders shook. Her eyes widened with revulsion as she realised what he had been trying to tell her. He had been violated. Raped, repeatedly. She had somehow suspected as much, but to hear the words from his own lips filled her with horror for his suffering. No wonder he had spent so many years pushing people away. Overwhelmed with love for him, and amazement that he had ever allowed her through his barriers, she wanted to break down and grieve for the abuse he had endured and the lonely years that had followed, but she knew that to give in to emotion now would not help him. She had to make him see that she accepted him, and that she had truly enjoyed what they had just done, in the hope that he would be able to close behind him another door on his past.

"Come on," she said firmly, hugging him then releasing him. "Let's get dressed. We don't want Mucky to catch us like this, do we?"

She perched on the edge of his desk as he fastened the last buttons of his frock coat. He was frowning and she got the distinct impression that he wanted her to be the first to speak.

"I – I _liked_ that," she said hesitantly. His eyes flicked up to hers for a moment and his frown deepened. "I felt so – so safe, and so submissive. I like it when you – when you make me succumb to you. To your strength."

"You like to be controlled? Powerless?"

"Yes, when it's you." She reached for his hands, which had hung limply at his sides. "I always do, you're often in control. It's _wonderful_. But this – this was different for you, wasn't it, love?"

"You have no idea."

"I think I do. This was about control being a _bad_ thing, wasn't it? That's why we've never done it quite that way before."

"It brought back certain memories, yes," he said tightly.

At that moment they were distracted by the sudden appearance of Mucky, his arms laden with huge platters of food with silver domed covers. He placed them on one of the desks and gave a little bow, snapping his fingers and disappearing once more. They made no move to go and eat their meal, and it was stone cold by the time Severus had finished speaking.

               ***************************************************************

By the time the eleven year old Severus Snape had been sorted into Slytherin House he already knew more curses and hexes than most seventh years, and had even used several of them successfully, too. His brother had been the unwitting recipient of more than Snape cared to admit, although it did not seem to have done Caius any lasting harm, and more often than not the young Snape was adept at the relevant counter-curses. A true Slytherin, he instinctively knew how to cover his tracks and feign innocence when faced with parental suspicion. 

Always a self-sufficient child, the constant demands of his younger brother due to the expectations placed on him by parents who were frugal with their time and their affection as well as their finances caused him to retreat still further into himself once he was at school. Rather than reach outwards in order to embrace new friendships and new experiences, instead he exulted in being responsible for no-one save himself. Thus it was that he withdrew into a world all his own, full of learning and peace, of quiet study and secluded contemplation. 

As he progressed through Hogwarts he absorbed all the knowledge that the school made available to him, and more still that it didn't, becoming adept at sneaking into the Restricted section of the library in the middle of the night, when even the caretaker and the restless ghosts slept. 

By the time he decided that he was ready to share his knowledge and his skills with his peers, it was too late. Term after term had passed him by, friendships had been formed, broken and made again, and he had grown into greasy, gawky early adolescence, easy to tease and quick to withdraw, spurned by boys and girls who saw no reason to see beyond his unusual appearance and unapproachable demeanour.

They had even given him a nickname. Snivellus Snape. It had been coined during his third year, after a particularly nasty blow to his right arm by a bludger had lost his house the Quidditch cup. It had also lost him the use of his arm for two weeks and with that his ability to complete a complex potion that would have granted him a year's subscription to the Ars Alchemica, his favourite periodical, and a twenty galleon prize. 

His understandably emotional reaction to Madam Pomfrey's bad news, in the Hospital Wing after the match, had been witnessed by one James Potter, the Gryffindor seeker responsible for his team's ultimate defeat, who was waiting to be treated for a grazed knee. Potter had gleefully told Sirius Black, school stud even at the tender age of fourteen and with a mouth even bigger than the alleged size of his _lyon rampant_.

Thus had begun the snide comments, the ambushes in deserted corridors, the persecution and the outright hostilities that had culminated in the Whomping Willow incident and his disbelief at the lack of support given him by the Headmaster, a man for whom he had held an admiration stronger than that which was his own father's due. 

Snape had not been defenceless down the years, to be sure, and he prided himself on often being responsible for casting the first spell. But the constant wariness of others and his own inability to make any friends other than certain of the Slytherins whom, he suspected, had their own agendas and acted in no-one's interests but their own, was disheartening and he became an even more solitary soul than was his natural inclination.

Divide and rule, so the maxim went. He was ripe for the plucking; he could see that, looking back from the lofty position granted him by hindsight's mockery. Many of his fellow Slytherins were out for their own ends, ruthlessly ambitious and unwilling to carry anyone else's dead weight. Snape's division from his peers was equally compelling, in its way. The end result was certainly the same. A new crop of students, ripe for the harvest by the time they had reached their seventh year, and Severus Snape, brilliant, aloof and bearing a grudge, had been identified by one Lucius Malfoy as the pick of the bunch.

Tom Riddle had been a prefect at Hogwarts, so Lord Voldemort reminisced about his time there, flattering Snape with his attentions and sympathising with Snape's resentment at being passed over for that position himself, nurturing the bitterness so that it blazed in Snape's gut until its incandescence reduced to ashes any shred of respect he still had for Albus Dumbledore and his staff. 

He cultivated Snape's intellect assiduously, for he coveted his skills, knowing that such talents and predispositions were rare. A wizard well versed in all aspects of the Dark Arts, Voldemort had access to a wealth of arcane texts the like of which Snape had barely dreamed could exist. Once he had immersed himself in formulae and ingredients, and was absorbed in lists of supplies and the perusal of jars and vials in a storeroom created especially for him, Snape found each of the attached strings to be a price well worth the paying. For some considerable time, in fact.

At first, Snape did not even realise that he was being singled out for special attention. A lingering hand on his shoulder, the rush of hot breath on his cheek as Voldemort looked over his shoulder into a softly simmering cauldron; these were gestures that Snape, starved of friendship at school and affection at home, found reassuring and indicative of acceptance at last.

Later those same gestures would fill him with dread. Later, when the Dark Mark had been branded into his flesh by means of spells so arcane that he had not possessed the skill even to understand them, let alone memorise them for later study, his mind would shrink from the contact while he forced his body to remain impassive, although that skill only came with time. Month after month of time.

The first time had come as something of a surprise. Snape had heard sounds coming from a small ante-room just off the meeting-hall that Voldemort, in his evil ascendancy, had chosen in which to stage his larger Death Eater gatherings. Snape had opened the door a fraction to see the back of the tall, crimson robed figure that used to be Tom Riddle shaking rhythmically as his hips pumped into a recumbent figure obscured from Snape's view, leaning over the side of a chair. Only when the Dark Lord threw back his head and laughed as he reached his climax did Snape see, to his horror, that the willing participant in the debauchery was Peter Pettigrew. And only when Voldemort turned to Snape, his eyes strangely slitted and red, hissing his name,

"_Severussss_….sweet Severussss…will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dansssse?" with a chilling sibilance formed by a forked tongue, did Snape realise that the duties he was expected to perform for Voldemort were by no means limited to his prowess as a skilled maker of potions.

The first time, Snape had thought he had been split open as comprehensively as a watermelon dropped from a great height. He had apparated back to the sanctuary of his moonlit bedroom at his family home, and had sobbed bitter, ashamed tears into his pillow for the rest of the night. When he had eventually summoned up the will to move and to clean himself, he had discovered the full extent of his injuries and had determined to never allow himself to be used in that way again. His resolution, of course, was tested the very next time he was summoned, and it crumbled to nothing when faced with the Dark Lord's persuasion.

He learned to prepare a particular unguent that soothed and healed within days and enabled him at least to sit normally when dining with his family, and was grateful for the relief it afforded, although he often thought bitterly that all he was doing was preparing his body to welcome yet another hideous assault.

His treacherous body. Voldemort soon decided to vary their encounters a little, and while he was pounding into Snape from behind, he would reach round long fingers, even then almost skeletal, curling them over Snape's genitals and squeezing and caressing while whispering mocking words of false lust into Snape's ears, and Snape would find himself screwing shut his eyes, trying to block out all feeling, while his member grew against his will in Voldemort's hand, grew until it was as hard as granite, until Voldemort's vicious pumping drew a shuddering, shameful, glorious relief and he fell forward, panting and trying not to scream as Voldemort's own climax burned like acid deep inside him. 

The abuse only stopped when Snape, so traumatised and so determined to hide his true feelings and his weakness from the Master he had quickly learned to loathe, no longer sprang to attention in that sinister grasp, or anywhere else, for that matter. 

And as the months passed, Snape's skills grew and his creations became ever more lethal. Voldemort assured him that his work would be valuable in the world of research, and would make a useful bargaining tool in his continual quest for support and power, but Snape was perceptive enough to realise that the tone of the meetings was changing, and the incidences of Muggle abductions and torture were increasing all the time. He suspected that it would be only a matter of time before Voldemort decided to test the efficacy of Snape's brews on creatures more complex than grindylows or doxies. Muggles, for instance; and his perceptions proved to be correct.

Later, all that Snape would ever say in his defence was that he had distanced himself by then. His protective carapace was sealed tightly shut, and he disassociated himself completely from the other Death Eaters' activities. Certainly he disliked the 'cold fish' epithet, and anybody who had witnessed his monotonously regular night terrors would have realised immediately that it was far from the truth, but at least his calculated disdain and his professional prowess allowed him to keep a discreet distance from their worst excesses. And, by the time Voldemort started using the most lethal of Snape's achievements, Snape had already begun to mislead the Dark Lord into believing that he was working on a brew even more effective, when in reality he was trying desperately to find a counter-agent to try to undo the harm he belatedly realised he had done to both the wizarding and Muggle worlds.

                                                                              ***

Nightmares were something Snape had long understood. He had suffered enough of them over the years to know how debilitating their effects could be on waking, and so when Ella's started, with her first one on Christmas night after he had spent the evening brewing the Wolfsbane potion for Lupin, he would hold her to him in the night as she had always done him, and soothe her horrors away. He hated to see her suffer and he wanted to protect her, but at the same time he relished his role as her comforter because it meant that she needed him. He was her protector, her strength, and he wanted her to depend on him. It gave him control, and power over her, and would bind her to him. The more needy she was the better, as far as he was concerned, for he was as needy for her and feared that if ever she stopped depending on him there would be nothing left but his past misdeeds and they would surely drive her away. 

Every time she woke up sobbing, in those first few weeks after their idyllic Christmas, he would clasp her to him with a fierce protectiveness and sorrow for her suffering; but at the same time he would feel a guilty pleasure in her pain, since she made it quite clear that only he could take it away. Base, yes; Machiavellian, certainly, but he was after all a Slytherin, and she had chosen a Slytherin to love.

As the weeks went by and the nightmares worsened, she changed. He held her more tightly than ever before but she became moody and withdrawn and he felt her slipping through his fingers. He would reach out for her in his sleep, only to find her curled up on the far side of their bed with her back to him, unwilling and unapproachable. 

He had an idea as to why she changed. He had created a fatal toxin seventeen years before, and he thanked the Fates that she had escaped it, but ultimately there was no avoiding its consequences, for either of them. Voldemort's poison had finally taken effect and no amount of will on his part could create an effective antidote. As realisation dawned, he knew that all his efforts to keep her within his grasp would be in vain and, heart's desire or not, he would lose her, and deservedly so. 

Their rows had been unpleasant and deeply worrying. He tried time and again to read her, out of desperation at the incomprehensibility of her frequent mood swings, but she was completely closed to him. He thought many times that he should ask advice of Albus Dumbledore, perhaps even ask if he would read her on Snape's behalf, but the Headmaster's disapproval on the two previous occasions that Snape had admitted his attempts at Legilimency prevented him from seeking his help. 

Her inconsistency confused him, at first. On more than one occasion she had deliberately tried to antagonise him and had started a fight, only to run to him later and beg him to make love to her. He would want to ask her to explain herself but dared not, in case she answered by telling him the one thing he dreaded to hear. After a while he stopped wondering at her behaviour and simply accepted that this was the way it had to be for him not to lose her. 

He took out his many frustrations on his students. It had ever been thus, and if more of the female students were being reduced to tears than before, then he simply attributed it to the pressures of the extra assignments he was setting. He was working harder, brewing up stocks of the commonly used potions even in his free time in order to avoid giving Ella too many opportunities to pick fights, so he saw no reason for his students not to work harder too. 

Avoidance equalled cowardice, in Snape's opinion. Saving one's own neck had always been a peculiarly Slytherin trait, and yet Snape had spent his entire adult life acting in the best interests of those around him rather than himself. He had saved himself from Voldemort, it was true, but only to go back to his side at great personal risk. He had never been one to shy from his responsibilities. However, when it came to confronting Ella about her behaviour, and facing up to the fact that she might not love him any more, he became powerless. Unmanned. Feeble, and vulnerable. His craven behaviour was another stick with which to beat himself and by the time he finally decided to stand and fight, it was too late.

His patience finally snapped on the night of the Valentine's Ball. Ella had been nagging him all month, ever since the Headmaster had announced that Professor Trelawney was to organise a mid-term celebration for the students. The school had erupted into excited chatter at the proclamation, and his spirits had sunk. It was farcical at the best of times, and he despised those shallow fools who wallowed in meaningless fripperies and insincere declarations of undying love. Not one of them had any idea about the truth of love, the blissful pain of it, and the gut-wrenching pleasure of it. He saw nothing admirable in pretending to celebrate it when his world was collapsing all around him. He knew that Ella would have been in full accord with him only weeks before, but now she seemed determined to rub his nose in their unhappiness by insisting he attend.

"Give me some peace, woman!" he had bellowed one afternoon, unable to tolerate her constant needling. "You know that hearts and flowers and silly love notes mean _nothing_ to me! Giggling schoolgirls and shallow sentiment? Hah! It's all rubbish, none of it's _real_! And I don't know how that charlatan Trelawney persuaded Albus into it in the first place!"

"But I want to go! It'll be fun!" she insisted.

"Fun?" 

"Yes, _fun_! Ever heard of it?"

"Pah!"

He began to stride towards the door to his office. His next class would be arriving soon, and he was glad of the excuse to end their conversation.

"Fine, don't come," she snapped, and then added maliciously, "I'll get someone else to take me. Like Sirius!"

He froze at the door, the blood turning to ice in his veins. Ah, the Sorting Hat had been wrong when it had placed her in Ravenclaw, for she was surely a fine example of the more extreme of his own house! It was cruel indeed to taunt him in such a way.

"You will _not_. I won't let you!" he said in a low voice, his nails digging into his palms with barely suppressed fury.

She raised her eyebrows at him mockingly, and he slammed the door shut behind him. He had to take several deep breaths before he felt able to carry on through to the classroom. 

By the time the lesson was over and the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw houses had lost seventy five points between them, she had gone. He checked the drawers of the armoire to make sure her personal items were still there, as he did every time they had a spat, then he sat down heavily on the edge of the bed and bowed his head. If she was serious about going to the ball with Black, and he had no reason to doubt her determination, then it would be as clear a message as she had ever sent him about the state of their relationship.

She had not returned to his room that evening, obviously preferring to spend the night alone. He did not go to her. He had long since lost the conviction that they could overcome any problem that beset them as long as they were together. Some differences were simply insurmountable. He wanted to give up, crawl into a dark corner and rot. There would be little meaning to a life without her in it. However, the name Sirius Black had the same effect on him as would a red cloth brandished at a fierce bull, and he reminded himself bitterly that his own jealousy would ensure his presence at the ball.

                                                                         ***

The morning of the ball dawned cold and grey. He had barely slept, and had lain awake for hours listening to her sleep. She would still crawl into his arms into the night and he would hold her to him and slow his breathing until its rhythm matched hers, but after a while she would always push him away and retreat to the far side of the bed. Bleakness would chill his soul then, for he knew that if she would reject him even in her slumber, then there would be little chance that he could reach her while she was awake. So on this morning, he watched and waited, and wondered whether this would be his day of reckoning, or her day to come back to him. He closed his eyes as she began to stir, feigning sleep as she dressed and disappeared into the bathroom. Soon after, he heard her steal out of the room and he only opened them again when the latch clicked shut behind her.

Lessons that day were intolerable. The students were particularly annoying, being full of excitement about the evening's entertainment, and there was much giggling and blushing even though he threatened on more than one occasion to give detentions that evening for any minor infractions. By the time the last class of the day had left the potions classroom almost at a run, and their eagerness to leave was nothing like as keen as was his to be rid of them, his head was pounding and the sense of doom weighed so heavily on his shoulders that he wanted to scream and rail against the injustice of it all. He had not laid eyes on Ella all day, and when he closed the door to the classroom behind him and went through his office to their bedroom he hoped desperately that she would be there. She was not, and her emerald still lay on the bedside cabinet. She had not been back all day, and had missed luncheon. She was avoiding him. He sat down heavily in the armchair beside the fire, summoned a bottle of firewhisky and a large goblet in the vain hope that it would melt the block of ice that was lodged in his gut, and waited.

When the time came to go to the ball and she had still not returned, he knew that he could put off the inevitable no longer. He felt an ominous sense of foreboding and fancied that he could see the three Fates spinning out his future from a single cold black thread while the small brightly hued skein that had been his life with Ella lay on the floor at their feet, discarded and disregarded.

He lurched to his feet and, like a dead man walking, made his way to the Great Hall where the Valentine's Ball was in full swing.


	16. Degeneration

**Chapter 16**

**Degeneration**

The classroom had darkened considerably as the afternoon drew on and, since there was no fire there, had become quite cold. They had withdrawn to their own private quarters once they had heard Persephone awaken, and Severus had taken advantage of the natural break in the recounting of his tale to cast a reheating charm on their meal. The food had turned to ash in his own mouth but he could not have allowed Ella to go all day without sustenance when she needed all the energy she could get in order to keep Persephone contented and well-fed. 

Now, as the dinner hour approached, they all three sat together on the long blue leather sofa, and Severus was soothed by his family's unconditional love, although he wanted Ella to accept everything about him from a position of absolute knowledge rather than blind faith. Thus far, although he found the experience to be draining and traumatic in the telling, Ella's understanding had been balm to his soul and he felt as if the chains that had for so long shackled it were falling away one by one. 

Ella stood and yawned.

"Oh, I'm tired! Let's not stay too late at dinner tonight."

"We don't _have_ to go at all," he replied blandly.

"Yes we do, Tonks is coming!"

"Damn, and I forgot to put out the red carpet!"

"Don't be like that, she's very nice! And from what he's told me, your brother seems quite taken with her," Ella said, walking round to the back of the sofa and leaning down to slip her arms around her husband's neck.

"More fool him, the woman's a walking disaster area!" he grumbled, tilting back his head so that Ella could kiss him.

"She didn't seem that bad when I spent the day with her before Christmas."

"She was under orders. And you were lucky."

"Oh. Well, she means well."

"The Fates preserve us from do-gooders!" he muttered. Ella released him with a conciliatory pat on his shoulder, and he frowned after her as she went into their bedroom to change for dinner. After a while he sighed heavily and followed her, banishing the bothersome Nymphadora Tonks from his mind. He loved to watch Ella dress. True, he preferred it when her clothing was being removed, but nevertheless, watching her transform from the delicious private Ella only he saw to the public beauty was something of which he never tired. He sat back on their bed with his hands behind his head and crossed his legs at the ankle, settling down for the show, while Persephone gurgled contentedly at his side.

                **********************************************************

The Great Hall had been turned into a riotous nightmare of pink and gold in honour of Valentine's Day. Wherever Snape looked he had seen something sickeningly sweet and irredeemably shallow. Bubbles had danced around his feet and he had felt a certain grim satisfaction in stamping on them as he skirted the perimeter of the room, scowling at anyone who dared to speak to him. Albus had displayed rare tact in excusing him from chaperone duties on this occasion, so he was there for one reason and for one reason only, and that was to see if Ella had made good her threat to attend the ball with his arch-rival and long-time enemy Sirius Black. He had leaned against the wall, folding his arms, and scanned the room for her. 

She was there, on the dance floor. She was a vision and his greedy eyes took in every detail as he gazed at her. She wore her hair loose and it cascaded down her back in thick glossy ringlets. She wore a claret coloured velvet dress with a tightly fitting bodice which made her creamy breasts spill out over the top, and a panelled skirt which revealed lace inserts as she span laughing around the floor. And the person doing the spinning, of course, was none other than Sirius Black, dressed up to look like the cheap gigolo that he was. He glared at them, his gut twisting in jealous, impotent rage. The waltz ended, and was replaced by the unmistakeably suggestive beat of the tango. Ella had seen him, and the smile had frozen on her face, but Black seemed oblivious to her stiffening in his lecherous embrace and he bent her backwards over his arm, before pulling her up to him again. Snape seethed as he saw Black's hand reach down to Ella's rear as he began to kiss her neck.

In an instant Snape had reached the middle of the dance floor and he snarled in a low voice,

"Take your hands off her, Black!"

Black did not even have the good grace to appear embarrassed.

"Oh, hello Severus, so glad you decided to join us, but you know, this isn't a gentleman's excuse me, so if you don't mind-"

"I _said_ get your filthy hands _off_ her!" Two red spots blazed in Snape's cheeks. He was white with rage.

"Severus, we were just dancing!" Ella protested, but he hardly heard her through the red mist that clouded his senses and muffled everything around him. He snapped his head round to fix her with a white-hot glare.

"I _saw_ what you were doing! Come with me. NOW!"

He took her arm, wanting her to return to the dungeons with him and explain herself, wanting her to fall into him once more and let him love her, wanting everything to be as it was, as it could surely be again.

"But I want to _stay_. I want to dance with _you_!"

His lip curled and he sneered, "I don't dance! Now do as I say, we're going!" He knew as he said the words that he was making a bad situation even worse, but the compulsion was too strong. He wanted her back, but he knew he had never deserved her in the first place, and so now he careened towards self destruction, spiralling down faster and faster and unable to stop.

"She doesn't want to! Now bugger off, Banquo!"

Black had more failings and irredeemable character flaws than Snape cared to enumerate, but not knowing when to keep his objectionable opinions to himself was by far and away the worst. If ever there was a less welcome guest at the banquet, it was Sirius Black. This was none of Black's affair, however much he might wish it was. Incandescent with pent-up rage, Severus drew his wand. If Black wouldn't shut his mouth then a nice little sealing hex might do the trick. To start things off, anyway.

"Severus, NO!" Ella screamed, and at that moment that tiresome busybody Miss Granger came up behind him and plucked his wand from his hand. He opened his mouth, ready to let loose a stream of invective at the meddlesome child, but thought better of it and instead drew back his hand and punched Black with all his strength. That was far more satisfying, he thought smugly as his rival staggered backwards and fell on to the floor, wiping his bloodied nose on the back of his hand. At that moment, however, the Headmaster joined their little party and said coldly,

"Professor Snape, in my office please. And you too, Miss Redemte."

Giving Black a last sneer, Snape swept out of the Great Hall, stunned students scattering before him. He was the first to arrive outside Dumbledore's office, and as he stood with his arms folded he remembered the look on Ella's face after he had punched Black. Fear.

Dumbledore and Ella were not far behind, and he found he could meet neither Ella's bewildered, fearful gaze nor the Headmaster's angry blue eyes. He strode straight across to the window and stood staring out into the blackness beyond.

"Would you like to explain yourself, Severus?" Dumbledore asked in a mild tone that Snape knew very well belied his wrath. "Assaulting a fellow teacher in a room full of students is not what I consider to be acceptable behaviour. Do I have to ask you to take a sabbatical?"

"Black started it!" Snape snarled.

"It's my fault, Headmaster," Ella began tremulously. "I should leave. I- I _want_ to leave."

He turned to look at her incredulously. He had known this was coming, but it still sucked the air from his lungs to hear it. How could she leave, when she was all he had ever wanted?

"Severus and I have been having problems recently and I need to get away for a while."

"_What_?" was all that he could say. Disbelieving, he could not keep the bewilderment from his voice. He was ten years old again, lost and confused. He was losing her.

"We row all the time, you drink too much-"

"You've been driving me to it recently, woman!"

"You're so withdrawn and secretive -"

"_You're_ the one that can't bear to share my bed any more!"

"And you wonder why!"

"Yes, I bloody well _do_ wonder why! _Tell_ me why!"

_Don't leave me!_

"You _know_ why."

"Oh, this is ridiculous!" he spat bitterly, turning back to the window. He thought he knew exactly why she had stopped loving him, but he needed to hear her say it, and she would not. Dumbledore sighed.

"Are you sure that leaving here is what you want?" he asked quietly. Ella nodded, and Snape saw her reflection in the window and his heart broke. "Where will you go?"

"Beauxbatons" she whispered. "Severus, don't try to follow me."

"Hah!" he ejaculated in a strangled tone. He had lost her. He needed her to hurt as badly as he, although he doubted very much that that was possible. "You flatter yourself! You have _such _a high opinion of yourself, don't you? Now, if you'll excuse me – I don't want to listen to this any more. " 

He could not bear it. He wanted to cross the room to her and crush her to him, beg her not to abandon him, remind her of how much he loved her, but he could not. It would do no good. He took a pinch of Floo powder from the tin on Dumbledore's mantelpiece and muttered "Dungeons!" With a last bitter glance at her, his mouth twisting, he was gone.

Back in the sanctuary of his bedroom, he stood motionless for several seconds before falling to his knees and scouring his throat as he railed loudly against the Fates and their cruelty, and lamented his loss. There was half of the firewhisky left, and he took a long slug from the bottle, followed by several more. 

By the time he realised that the insistent pounding he could hear was not coming from inside his head but from someone on the other side of his bedroom door, he could no longer think straight. He had a wild, irrational hope that it might be Ella, come to tell him that she was sorry, she had been wrong and she loved him still, but no. He lurched to the door and wrenched it open to find only the werewolf and his schoolgirl lover.

"Severus? Are you all right?" asked Lupin fatuously, Granger hanging on to his arm in wide-eyed horror.

"What's the matter, Miss Granger? Have you never seen a broken man before?" he slurred, swaying slightly. "And you, Lupin, you stupid git, do I look _all right_? D'you think _you'd_ be _all right_, in my shoes? Gah, you haven't got a bloody _clue_, either of you." He stumbled over to his chair and sat down heavily, his mind fogged with grief and whisky. "How dare you come down here and disturb me, with your well-meaning gestures and your sympathy and your bloody happiness, rubbing my nose in it," he muttered morosely. "As if anything could help, now. She's leaving me! She's going, and she doesn't know, she can't know how much she means to me or else she wouldn't go, how can she do this to me after the way I've loved her? How can she leave me? I never deserved her, not after what I did. I always knew she'd leave, in the end. How could she stay, knowing what I am? What I did?" He stood unsteadily again as he spoke and approached them until he was inches away from their faces. "Have you _any idea_ what that woman has put me through? Hmm? Any idea, at all?"

"Severus, you're upset, please – "

"Upset? _Upset_? Too bloody right I'm _upset, _Lupin!"

"We'll talk to her, I can find out what's wrong – " 

"Poking your nose in again, Miss Granger? How very helpful of you, how very _Gryffindor_!" he snarled. "Now get out. Get out of my sight! _Get out_!" Lupin and Hermione looked at one another worriedly, then reluctantly turned to leave.

"Wait!" Snape muttered, crossing to the bedside cabinet and picking up Ella's emerald pendant and its box. "She left this here, this morning." _The last time she had shared his bed_. "Give it to her, Miss Granger."

Hermione took it from him and he glared at them both, steadying himself against the door jamb as he said,

"Well, what are you waiting for? Didn't I tell you to leave?"

He locked, warded and silenced the room, before summoning a house elf for another bottle of firewhisky, and proceeded to drink and grieve himself into oblivion.__

                                                                           ***

****

Professor Dumbledore himself took Snape's classes for the remainder of the week, after the night of the Valentine's Ball. Black had been discharged from Madam Pomfrey's care the following morning, but the Headmaster had considered that it would be unwise to allow him within striking distance of Snape. Snape was left alone with a limitless supply of firewhisky and his bitter thoughts, which was exactly as he wanted it. Dumbledore knocked on his door twice a day; before morning lessons and at the end of the school day. Sometimes Snape opened the door and Dumbledore would step inside for a while. Other times Snape would not acknowledge the alarum, and would wait for the Headmaster's footsteps to fade away before resuming his silent vigil before the marble and lapis sculpture. 

Albus was a good deal more patient and understanding than Snape had expected after the debacle of the ball. There was no talk of sabbaticals or disciplinary measures, and no criticism of the number of empty bottles of Ogden's lined up on the hearth. Snape ranted and raved for a full hour one evening and all the old man did was listen. Another evening he sat beside a weeping Snape with a fatherly arm around his shoulders while the firewhisky loosened all Snape's inhibitions and allowed the comfort.

Snape resumed his duties at the beginning of the following week, with the help of liberal pre-prandial doses of Pepper-Up potion. It was the least he could do to repay Dumbledore's consideration. He fulfilled all his obligations throughout the school day, attending all meals in the Great Hall, supervising all of his classes and setting and marking assignments. However, as soon as he had closed and warded behind him the door from the classroom to his office and the bedroom beyond, he removed his mask of sour impassivity and gave his bitter emotions free reign. 

He hated Ella. He loathed her with a passion so pure and so white that he felt as though its heat had flayed him alive, making raw his every nerve ending until his body sang with pain at the absence of her. He loathed her so completely that hate-filled thoughts of her ate greedily into his mind with an avidity that consumed all else until all he could think about was her. He had no need now of normal emotions, of humdrum workaday feelings such as comfort, fondness, happiness, laughter, friendship, sorrow, rue, regret, loyalty or guilt. Loathing and self-loathing were all that he required, and he nurtured those ruined twins with bottled oblivion. 

                                                                      ***

It was exactly a week after she had left him that the owls came. He was sitting at the breakfast table pretending to eat when the rustling of a hundred wings alerted the school to the arrival of the post and the general hubbub of the Great Hall increased accordingly. A large tawny owl deposited a cream vellum envelope on to his plate, sealed with the unmistakeable sigil of the Ministry of Magic. He frowned slightly, wondering what it could be, and put it to one side while he took a sip of his coffee. A sharp intake of breath to his right alerted him to the fact that Remus Lupin was also the recipient of a Ministry missive. He glanced at Lupin's envelope, and it did indeed bear the same seal. He picked up his own and opened it, aware also now of the reactions of Potter and Granger, directly in his line of sight over at the Gryffindor table. Granger's eyes were wide and fearful, and Weasley had slipped a comforting arm around her shoulders. 

He realised what news the letter must contain and, feeling as if steel shutters were clamping down over his heart, he unfolded the parchment to read that the date for Malfoy's trial had been set. He would have to see Ella again, since she and Hermione were star witnesses for the prosecution. He rose from his seat, intending to make good his escape to the dungeons in order to wallow in his own personal brew of bitterness, hatred and despair, but the Headmaster had other ideas and Snape flinched as he patted him on the shoulder and instructed him softly to go immediately to the staff room for a meeting to discuss the matter.

He stalked off down between the tables, staring fixedly at the doors and not daring to look to either side for fear of any student noticing that his grip on his self control was slipping. He reached the staff room before anybody else had even reached the end of its corridor.

By the time Dumbledore and the others had arrived Snape's agitation was so severe that it was all that he could do to prevent himself from screaming. He took up his habitual position slightly outside the gathered circle, leaning with apparent indolence against one of the many bookcases that lined the shabbily comfortable room, but his clenched fists with their whitened knuckles gave his secret away and his torment did not go unnoticed by anyone present.

Dumbledore stood before the fire with his hands behind his back and surveyed the gathering from over the top of his half moon spectacles.

"I assume you all know why I have gathered you here?" he began, smiling kindly at Harry and Hermione. Everyone save for Snape murmured their assent, and the Headmaster continued, "I shall be contacting Tom, the proprietor of the Leaky Cauldron, later today in order to arrange our accommodations."

"Accommodations?" Snape cut in sharply, frowning at the Headmaster.

"Indeed, Severus, for two nights. We will be required to present ourselves at the Ministry of Magic first thing in the morning on the day of the trial, in order for the Veritaserum to be administered, and the trial may well extend into a second day, depending on how the evidence goes."

Snape folded his arms and scowled across the room to the small selection of portraits on the far wall. A diminutive, flustered witch in a white mob cap and voluminous yellow crinoline squeaked and fled her painting under his fierce gaze.

"What – er – what about Ella?" Remus asked. Hermione looked across to Snape nervously. He pushed himself away from the bookcase and glared at them both, his lip curling into a sneer, before stalking across to the window where he stood with his back to the assembly, staring out at nothing. Better that than see the pity on their faces.

"Miss Redemte will be making her own arrangements, Hermione. She too will have received her letter this morning."

She would have sat at the staff table in Beauxbatons and received her letter, as he had his. He had never been to Beauxbatons and wished now that he had, for he could not do more than imagine her in those surroundings and it was too intangible, too vague. His mind's eye kept transposing her to equivalent locations at Hogwarts, when he thought of her, and the notion that she would never walk there with him again broke his heart over and over. Or perhaps she had still been in her rooms when her owl had arrived, and opened the letter in private. He wondered whether she had cried, and whether she had thought of him.

Dumbledore had begun to explain to Harry and Hermione what form the trial would take, where everybody would have to sit before and after giving evidence and other practicalities. The low buzz of subdued conversation behind Snape became nothing more than white noise, an irritation to be brushed off as best he could until he was released back into his solitude. He needed to collect his thoughts. It was time to distil his bile and decant it into a pensieve where it could corrode something other than his mind and his gut, and the sooner he could make a start the better. The last thing he needed was well-meaning platitudes from cradle-snatching werewolves, so when Remus Lupin sidled up to him and placed an unwelcome paw on his shoulder Snape recoiled and almost allowed himself to spit a stream of invective in his direction.

"Get your hands off me, Lupin. Leave me alone!"

"Severus, I just want you to know, I'm quite happy to double up with you at the Leaky Cauldron. It'll be fine. You'll get through it."

"What do _you_ know?" Snape snarled, turning on his heel as Lupin held out his hands in a placating gesture. He swept out of the room, and slammed the door behind himself before allowing himself to sink against the wall, his head bent down and his hair obscuring his face. He could not bear it. He could not see her again and maintain his self control. His shoulders shook twice as he tried to marshal the mental strength to put one foot in front of the other. Too late. The staff room door opened and Lupin, evidently doggedly determined to worry Snape until he drove him to distraction, came out in search of him. He straightened and strode off quickly so that Lupin could not see the misery that was etched on his face.

He reached the sanctuary of his office without encountering anybody else, and locked himself in securely before falling into his chair and burying his face in his hands. He could no longer afford the luxury of wallowing in his misery. He would use the pensieve to rid himself of the worst of the pain although he knew that even when combined with the most powerful incantations he knew, a pensieve could never be sufficiently robust to contain the most potent of his memories of her. Love such as his – _hatred_ such as his -  required a pensieve of a strength equal to it, and he doubted that one existed.

 First, he would create a Lethean Sleep potion, so that his memories would not return to him in his slumber and remind him of her when he woke. He got to his feet unsteadily and took a small copper cauldron from a high shelf, along with a mortar and pestle of polished stone. Then he scoured the shelves of his private stores for the restricted ingredients he would need for the potion. These were not items which appeared on the school syllabus; he had learned of these while concocting all manner of foul preparations for the Dark Lord, and he believed, all-knowing as Albus Dumbledore appeared to be, that the true contents of these small, innocuous looking packets and jars were known to no-one in the school except its Potions master. He gathered them together with an avidity that was all the more ravenous for its very illegality. Lethean Sleep potion was one of the most strictly regulated potions there was, because it was related to Veritaserum and unlike Dreamless Sleep potion was a mind-altering brew requiring the most exact of dosages to avoid prolonged amnesia. Perhaps an 'accidental' overdose would not be such a bad thing, he thought bitterly.

Riding high on a wave of angry despair, he chopped and diced, ground and beat, until the cauldron was simmering and the ingredients were ready to be thrown in and stirred, drizzled and blended. The shadows lengthened as he danced around the cauldron like a dervish, his hair flying unheeded from his face as the magical force swelled all around him, abandoning himself to the scents and the sputtering colours of the brew, sparks shooting from the tip of his wand as he muttered the spells and incantations that would bring him sleep and blessed release from the madness that threatened to be his undoing. Steam condensed on his brow and pearls ran in rivulets down his cheeks like tears, and as he felt them his lonely eyes sought their companionship and provided them with many followers for their journey as they fell, to be absorbed in the depths of his high collar, his armour, his hiding place.

The gift from Lupin and Black had been given to Ella months before, but there remained his two original pensieves. They gathered dust in a dark corner of his office and had not been used for some time. One contained painful memories of his worst Death Eater excesses, and its waters swirled gunmetal grey. The other, a larger and shallower bowl, contained childhood memories and little else, and had last been used during his abortive attempt to train the Potter whelp in the art of Occlumency. He took this one down now, carrying it carefully across to the large circular table that served as a desk. Placing it carefully before him, he stared into its silvery depths for a moment before taking his wand from his robes and grimacing impatiently. He did not want to do this. Yet again, he found himself wanting to hold on to his misery, since it was all that remained to him. However, he would have to face Ella in less than two weeks, and he wanted to be prepared. He could not afford to reveal his weakness to the entire Ministry of Magic, let alone all his colleagues. And her, of course. 

He touched the tip of his wand to his temple and closed his eyes, pulling a brightly silver strand from his memory and placing it carefully into the pensieve with a shuddering sigh. He stood at the pensieve for a long time, while the shadows shortened outside his window and the sun reached its zenith, until at last the bowl was half full. Sagging and benumbed, he sat down heavily in the chair at his desk, and let his wand clatter on to the oak desk and roll across the surface until it was halted by the bowl of swirling, turbulent memories. He felt her loss keenly. He sensed that he always would.

The days passed, but the blade of his misery remained as sharp as ever. He spent his evenings alone, as had been his habit in the long years before Ella, but now his constant companion came in a bottle and their conversation was always the same. He spent hours watching the animated sculpture dance and embrace, and wondered bleakly how the love she had poured into the two figures had changed so quickly to fear and mistrust. The pensieve had tempered his rage, and had shown him that his hatred was not for her but for the way she had betrayed him, and the loss of her, but it had not eased his heart or made his lot any easier to bear. He resolved to find out, when circumstances forced them to meet again, where her love had gone so that he could search for it and bring it back.

                                                                  ***

He apparated to London alone on the eve of the trial. He travelled earlier than the other members of the Hogwarts contingent, for he had been charged with meeting the Counsel for the Prosecution at the Ministry of Magic. He wanted to discover what lines of questioning she and her counterpart the Defence Counsel intended to follow. He assumed that he might not get the opportunity to forewarn Ella of the possible content of the interrogations, but he could at least ensure that Miss Granger was adequately prepared. She was little more than a child, after all, despite Lupin's apparent blindness where her tender age was concerned. 

He apparated to the red telephone box which was the main entrance to the Ministry's headquarters deep underneath Muggle London. As he closed the door behind him he was reminded of his last visit. Her arms had been wrapped around his waist, her hips pressed to his, her eyes had laughed and her mouth had caressed. He had bought her the emerald that day, and the wedding bands and engagement rings that he had never been given the chance to offer her. 

He closed his eyes, trying to wipe the image of her face from his mind, and picked up the telephone receiver.

"Name and business?" came the crisp tones of the receptionist.

"Professor Severus – ahem – Severus Snape, to see Miss R Kovich, Barrister First Class," he rasped, blinking back excess moisture from his eyes irritably.

"Thank you, Miss Kovich is expecting you, second floor."

The floor beneath his feet shook a little and then began its slow, steady descent, and a few moments later Snape was striding across the impressive marble foyer towards the lifts.

The barrister's name was embossed in gold calligraphy on to an oak plaque that was inset at eye level in a door otherwise made entirely of rippling opaque glass. Snape rapped briskly on the glass and the door swung open of its own accord. He entered a small but light and airy space, professionally feminine in its décor. A tall blonde was unfolding herself from behind a wide, tidy desk, and she smiled as she extended a hand in greeting.

"Professor Snape. I'm Rowena Kovich."

"Miss Kovich," he nodded in greeting, shaking her hand and taking the offered seat after she had returned to hers. He crossed his legs and folded his hands in his lap, while she turned a deep blue gaze on him. Sizing him up, he thought, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, unused to being subjected to such close scrutiny. Most people let their gaze slip from his quickly, intimidated, and he preferred it that way. _Except for Ella. He had believed that her eyes had seen into his soul_. The Counsel's hair was tied into an elaborate bun at the nape of her neck, and would be long and very thick were she to wear it loose, and he speculated that the woman must have Veela blood running through her veins. He wondered idly whether that was an unfair advantage for someone in her line of work, but decided that since she was on their side the question was probably irrelevant.

"What can I do for you, Professor?" she smiled, revealing small, sharp white teeth.

"I would like to clarify certain matters of procedure before tomorrow," he began smoothly. "As you are no doubt aware, two of our witnesses are students at the school, and a third" – _Oh, Ella!_ "was deeply affected by the trauma. I would like to be in a position to put their minds at rest tonight."

Miss Kovich was only too happy to run through the arrangements for the following day, and Snape was gratified at her apparent eagerness to co-operate with his questions and requests. At length, he came to the underlying reason for his visit, but before he could ask his final question she leaned forward and tented her fingers, dropping her voice an octave and saying,

"And how can I be of service to _you_, Professor Snape?"

He frowned slightly at the hint of breathlessness in her voice. Perhaps she was suffering from some form of respiratory complaint. A simple tonic would cure it, and he hoped that there would be no dereliction of duty on her part that would affect her performance the following day, not when the means to resolve the matter was so elementary. Still, her question was a good enough opening for him and he answered quickly.

"I would like to know exactly what form the questioning of our two star witnesses will take at tomorrow's trial."

"Oh, Professor Snape, I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to divulge the Ministry of Magic's line of questioning…and besides, I cannot speak for my learned friend the Counsel for the Defence, whose interrogation will be far more stringent than mine."

"Granted, Miss Kovich, but I speak on behalf of Professor Albus Dumbledore when I say that it would be unfortunate, not to mention self-defeating, to question them too closely about their ordeal at Voldemort's hands. Malfoy is the one on trial here tomorrow, and I would not like to think that their willingness to speak openly about their foul treatment at his hand would be taken for granted and used as a stepping stone to give information of a more, shall we say, prurient variety with which to satisfy the needs of the gutter press?"

Snape's speech had been delivered in his lowest and most effective baritone, and it had washed over the Veela like melted chocolate. She sat back in her seat as he spoke and to his amazement his assertive, reasonable words had a most noticeable effect on her. By the time he had finished speaking her eyes were glassy and her lips had parted, and he saw her small pink tongue lick in a languid fashion over her lower lip. Disconcerted, he sat frowning and waited for her reply. After a few moments, he tried again.

"Miss Kovich? Might I have some form of assurance, please? One of the witnesses of whom I speak is barely an adult, and I – "

"Yes! Yes! Oh, yes of course!" Miss Kovich gradually returned to her senses and he watched as her fingers splayed out over the arms of her chair, gripping them and then caressing them with lazy strokes. Perplexed, he met her gaze and allowed his mind to enter hers, tentatively at first and then more boldly when he realised that she had no idea that he was reading her. Suddenly his mind was suffocated by a mist of raw red lust, and images of her naked body writhing against his filled his mind.

He withdrew, shocked, and cleared his mind of her thoughts. The Fates preserve him, she was _lusting_ after him? Oh, the irony of it! Before Ella, he might have been flattered by this woman's attentions, might have succumbed to her no doubt limitless charms, subjected himself to the legendary sexual skills of her kind and enjoyed it, but not now. And she was definitely Veela, he could sense it in her now, feel the animal magnetism she was projecting, hear the distant music that played just beyond his conscious thought, the music that Veela used to lure their prey, and he could see the hag-like ugliness that lay in secret beneath her veneer of glacial sophistication.

He had never been seduced by the siren song of the Veela. He had been aware of the power they could wield, of course, for what man wasn't? Indeed, in certain pureblood families, his own included, Veela had long been used to induct young men into the art of love.

She left him cold. The promises she made, with her song and her looks and her posturing, meant nothing to him. She was not his type, and his body was completely indifferent to the offer she made. Her hair was the wrong colour, her breasts were too small, her eyes held no warmth and reminded him of the frozen Steppes and not the lushness of the Forbidden Forest or the vastness of oceans. She was too tall, too thin, too far removed from Ella. She was nothing like Ella. She was not Ella.

"Is there anything else I can…_help_ you with today, Professor? Anything at all?"

Her gaze dropped to his lips and he saw her tongue run along the underside of her top teeth. His instinct was to rebuff her with a sharp word, a cruel comment, but he could not afford to jeopardise the outcome of the trial or risk worsening the experience for Ella and Hermione. He paused and allowed his mouth to curve upwards in what he prayed would be interpreted as an aggressively seductive smile.

He rose to his feet and noticed her chest begin to rise and fall rapidly. For some inexplicable reason she found him attractive so he had a golden opportunity to capitalise on that in true Slytherin fashion.

Her hand fluttered to her throat as he walked deliberately around to her side of the desk, and her fingers stroked her collarbone underneath her blouse.

"Why, Miss Kovich, how very kind…" he murmured without breaking her gaze. "I shall give the matter…considerable thought…"

He leaned over her commandingly, one hand splayed out on the desk beside her, the other grabbing the top of the swivel chair, above her head. He leaned over her until she was entirely in his shadow, covered by his blackness, and his face was just inches from hers. He widened his eyes for a fraction of a second as he looked at her, to punctuate his words. It worked, for she gasped and began to close her eyes in eager anticipation of a roughly taken kiss. Instead, he murmured softly,

"Until tomorrow then, Miss Kovich," with his warm breath caressing her cheek. He straightened as she drew a ragged breath, and he turned on his heel and swept towards the door, spinning round in the doorway to pierce her with his gaze and smile wolfishly, leaving her flushed and disconcerted.

Miss Granger and Lupin were waiting for him in the bar when he arrived at the Leaky Cauldron. Looking suspiciously at them both, he did not need to ask the question that threatened to spill from his lips. Miss Granger's anxious expression showed him everything he needed to know, but she told him anyway.

"Ella arrived about half an hour ago, Professor Snape. She went straight to her room."

A muscle in his jaw twitched, and he tried to school his features into his preferred mask of impassivity. He took a seat at the bar, and beckoned to the barkeep for a firewhisky.

"Are you alright, Severus?" asked Lupin solicitously. He turned in his seat and scowled at him. Stupid questions like that did not deserve a civil answer, or any answer at all. "Look, Severus, it's late. Hermione's turning in, I won't be long myself. Busy day tomorrow!" Snape ignored him and ordered another drink. "Er…you can't stay here all night, you know!"

"Watch me."

"I don't think Ella's going to come down here tonight, Professor," Hermione began meekly.

"And what would you know, Miss Granger? Are you her social secretary now?" he snapped, sending her scurrying towards the stairs with the werewolf in tow. Snape turned back to the bar and glared at the saturnine reflection in the smoky glass.

He nursed his third firewhisky, gazing morosely into the amber liquid and swirling what was left of it around the glass. He sat closed in on himself, a black raven with wings folded around, hunched over and ready for sleep, or at least the drunken stupor that allows a different manner of oblivion. He drank to forget, but since he would allow no conversation or interaction there was no interruption for his thoughts and so all that he could do was remember. 

From his vantage point at the bar he could see the stairs leading to the upstairs guest rooms. He would see her, if she came down. He placed the whisky tumbler on to the counter and stared at it. It would be unwise of him to finish it. He would need all his wits about him if she came down. He would not want to alarm her by staggering drunkenly into her path and making a fool of himself with slurred declarations of love or, worse, intimidating her into an unwanted, one-sided conversation, if she came down.

He ordered coffee, strong and black. He drank cup after cup until late into the night, in case she came down.

She did not come.

Everybody had gone to bed now, except for Black who sat at a corner table with a small group of admirers, human females for the most part. Strange, how twelve years in Azkaban prison had not broken the man, or dulled his apparently gleaming attraction for the opposite sex. Women hung on Black's every word just as they had at school. Snape glared at him bitterly, reminded of humiliating taunts on manicured lawns and vengeful hexes in empty corridors. 

Ella had been different. Ella had not succumbed to his dubious charms. Snape's frown deepened. For all he knew, Ella could have fallen under his spell in France; but then Black would have been in an upstairs room with her now, not wasting an evening in shallow flirtation that would come to nothing more satisfying than a quick shag in a borrowed bed. He looked at Black speculatively. Perhaps over a decade of incarceration had left more than superficial marks after all. At least Snape had known love. He had known Ella.

The night drew on, and the last of the customers drifted out into the night. Soon even Tom had finished up and gone to bed. Only Snape and Black were left in the bar. Stretching, Black stood up and approached him.

"You going to sit there all night?"

Snape glared at him.

"I might."

"Look, Snape, it's two in the morning. She won't come now."

"She might."

"Go and get some rest, man, you'll see her in a few hours."

"Bugger off, Black. When I need your advice I'll ask you for it."

"Suit yourself," Black shrugged, heading for the stairs and pausing at the foot to offer a last parting shot before going to bed. "Face it, Snape, she's avoiding you!"

Snape did not answer, and he did not go to bed.


	17. Disintegration

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

Thanks to everyone who is reading and enjoying this story. Your continued interest means a lot, and I appreciate those of you who take the time to review more than I can say. Feedback is very important to a writer, even if it is only to say that the story has made a connection.

If anyone is familiar with a half-hour TV drama called 'Murder, Obliquely', they might recognise a short exchange between Snape and Tonks in this chapter. ;-)

****

**Chapter 17**

**Disintegration**

By the time they arrived in the Great Hall, most of the staff had arrived, as had their guests. Tonks stood talking to Caius and Sirius, and turned to wave frantically as they walked along the length of the Hall to the far end.

"Don't look now, but I think she's seen us!" commented Severus dryly out of the side of his mouth, and Ella elbowed him in the ribs.

"Hello Snape! How's family life? I _knew_ it'd all work out!" Tonks said enthusiastically as she bounced towards them. "And Ella! Wow, motherhood suits you, you look great! Love the hair!" She stopped short, and frowned. "Was it _always_ like that?"

"Er…yes?" said Ella, puzzled. Severus took Ella's elbow and tried to guide her away, towards the relative safety of Professors McGonagall and Sprout, but it was too late. Tonks continued,

"Blimey, Snape, I got it completely wrong, didn't I? No wonder you sent me packing in the Leaky Cauldron that time! Remember, after Malfoy's trial?" Oblivious to Snape's look of horror and everybody else's incomprehension, she turned to Ella happily. "See, I got the style right but the _colour_ was all wrong. No wonder he got so cross! Do you colour your hair?" she called after them as Severus steered Ella determinedly to the dining table.

"Severus, what _is_ she talking about?" asked Ella in clipped tones.

"Nothing. Nothing at all," he replied grimly. Ella looked at him suspiciously, then across the room to where Tonks and Caius were sparring playfully. She frowned and then sat down beside Severus, who was staring down at his place setting as if the cutlery laid out there was an unfamiliar and fascinating sight. 

"Severus, if you and Tonks have ever – "

His head snapped round and his eyes bored into hers fiercely. 

"We haven't! _Ever_!"

"Fine! You can tell me all about what _didn't happen_ later, can't you?" she hissed.

He scowled his assent and returned to his close scrutiny of the silverware. Ella had no reason to be jealous, although after witnessing her reaction to Miss Kovich at Malfoy's trial he knew very well that she had a tendency towards that trait. She must know that he could no more look at another woman than he could disown his daughter. He sighed inwardly. It was he who had reason to be jealous. His wife surely stole the heart of whomever she met, and he still itched to reach for his wand every time Sirius Black so much as smiled at her.

He was not looking forward to explaining to Ella about Tonks and how she misguidedly took it on herself to cheer him up after the trial, and for once he was grateful for Remus' and Hermione's company at the dinner table, for it distracted his wife and enabled him precious time in which to consider how best to explain, and how much to tell. After careful consideration he set down his knife and fork with a sigh. He would have to tell her it all, of course. She had a most disconcerting habit of knowing whenever he was economical with the truth and one benefit of being a Slytherin was to know when honesty was a more reliable option than running the risk of discovery with half truths. Besides, the whole point of these last few days was to share everything with her, quite apart from the fact that she had taken the emerald with her to France and for all he knew could have witnessed the entire woefully embarrassing business anyway. 

Ella soon thawed in the company of her friends, and when she put her hand on his thigh as she leaned across the table the better to hear the punch line to a mildly amusing joke about werewolves and 'full moons', he covered it with his own. She did not withdraw it, so he lifted it and put it to his lips. She turned her brilliant smile on him, and put her hand to his cheek. A few months before and he would have removed her hand and become embarrassed at such a public display of affection. Now, he held her gaze, his eyes burning into hers, and turned his head to nip seductively at the soft flesh of the ball of her thumb. She shivered at the promise in his eyes, and flushed. Relieved that she had forgiven him for Tonks' runaway tongue he actually enjoyed the rest of his meal, despite the occasional braying from the far end of the table that reminded him of Tonks' presence among them and the inexorable countdown to the explanation he had to make.

He made their excuses as soon after the end of the meal as was practicable, prising his daughter from Minerva and Poppy and assuring Ella that he would be able to see Caius the following morning before he and Tonks set off on their trip to Ireland. Ella was quiet on their way back down to the dungeons, and he could tell that she was steeling herself for whatever he had to tell her and probably imagining the worst. He wished he could tell her not to worry, but he was aware from past experience that protestations of innocence would not wash until the full story had been told. He had suspected Sirius of seducing Ella in France, and the suspicion had eaten away at him until she had finally confessed to the one stolen kiss they had shared. Now, it was evident that Ella suspected him of turning to Tonks for comfort during their separation, as if that clumsy chit could even have begun to fill the void she had left in his life. He opened the door to their rooms and followed her inside, wondering where was the best place to begin.

             ***********************************************************

On the morning of Lucius Malfoy's trial he had awoken to find his cheek pressed against the oak counter of the Leaky Cauldron's main bar and his nose inches away from a large mug of hot, milky coffee. His back had protested as he straightened up, and he noticed Tom on the other side of the bar, watching him worriedly.

"I take my coffee black, and unsweetened," he had snarled.

"That's as maybe, Professor, but get that down you anyway. You've not chosen the most comfortable bed in the place for your night's sleep, so I reckon you could do with a pick-me-up. There's bacon and sausages on out back, I'd be willing to share. Now, see," he continued as Snape began to demur, "I don't offer this service to all my paying guests. But you've got a busy day ahead of you, I reckon."

Snape acknowledged the offer with a shrug, and slid stiffly from his stool. He followed Tom behind the bar into the back room.

Later, having washed and changed in the room he had been supposed to share with Lupin, Snape returned to the bar. The breakfast, while taken gratefully at the time, lay heavily in his churning stomach and did absolutely nothing for his nerves. Agitated, he could not settle, preferring to pace the room from end to end. As soon as Dumbledore came down the stairs, looking annoyingly well-rested and in good spirits, Snape snapped,

"I can't stay here, Albus." _ I can't have Ella see me like this._ "I'm going to the Ministry now, to make sure everything's in place. I'll see you there."

"Of course, Severus, whatever you think is best. We'll all meet you there later."

Snape nodded and made for the fireplace, and an instant later he was gone.

Half an hour later, and Snape had done all that he could. He had examined the courtroom, paced the corridor, and now stood at one end of a long narrow room that housed a conference table and thirty two red velvet covered chairs. He had no timepiece, but nevertheless knew that his party would arrive soon, and that party would include his Ella. No, not his Ella any more.

He wondered how he would feel when he saw her and allowed a hollow laugh to echo into the empty vastness of the room. He knew that his self control would be sorely tested. Damn the woman for managing to burrow her way so deeply under his skin that she left poisoned barbs to fester there weeks after she had withdrawn.

He straightened his cuffs and his collar, making sure that all of the buttons on his black worsted frock coat were neatly fastened. He cut a formal and ascetic figure, he knew, armoured like this. If only people knew what roiling passions bubbled just below the surface. Ella had known. He had let her see. And she would know again, he was sure of it, however well he disguised it.

He stared out of the window, emptying his mind of all thought and emotion in the same way that he had done for years when the Dark Mark burned on his arm and he prostrated himself before the Dark Lord. His breathing slowed and steadied, and he was able to slump his shoulders and let his arms hang limply at his sides while he relaxed. He allowed the miasma of his conscious mind to be shuttered, enclosed and locked away, until all that was left was a grey, swirling emptiness and he was calm. Soon, however, his finely tuned hearing discerned the sound of many footfalls along the corridor outside, and all of his feelings and passions burst into life once more as he sensed her approach. 

The door swung open with a creak, and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck begin to prickle. He did not turn round, he simply stood staring out at nothing, but his hands curled themselves into fists at his sides and he clenched his jaw tightly. He heard the Potter boy say,

"Ella, are you okay?" 

Steeling himself, he turned and saw her and his heart broke again. She wore a velvet cloak of deepest claret over a long black gown. Her hair was loose and it fell over her shoulders in the lustrous curls that had so many times caressed his body and curtained their faces as they kissed. 

"Ella?" Potter repeated.

"Mister Potter," he began in a low voice, "I think you'll find that Miss Redemte does not like to share her thoughts nowadays. Luckily for the prosecuting counsel, the Veritaserum should help to _loosen her tongue_!"

She was not wearing the emerald and as their eyes met he could sense her fear. He was not reading her, he could not; but her terror was written all over her face. He did not know whether it was because of him or the trial, and he did not want to know, but her eyes widened at his approach. She sank down into a chair, and he stopped a few feet away from her. Their eyes were locked and then all at once, she gasped and looked as if she was about to faint. Concerned, he began to reach out to her and had to draw back hurriedly before his weakness was noticed.

At that moment the door creaked open once more and Rowena Kovich entered the room. Remembering their encounter the day before, he wrenched his gaze from Ella and turned to greet her, setting his features into an appropriate expression of interest and giving the woman an expansive smile. 

"This is Miss Kovich," said Snape in his silkiest voice. "She's been telling me all about what to expect today."

Introductions were made and he made sure that the Counsel for the Prosecution was once again given the impression that when the trial was over their relationship could become somewhat more personal. Glancing at Ella he was shocked but highly delighted to see anger flash from her eyes. Good, his green eyed angel had a little of the green eyed monster in her. He was pathetically relieved to see it, and resolved at the same time to capitalise on it at his earliest opportunity.

Miss Kovich opened her portfolio and flipped through some papers.

"Two representatives from the Ministry and the counsel for the defence will be here shortly to administer the Veritaserum," she said in a cut-glass accent that was far less friendly than the alluring one with which she had tried to seduce Snape the day before. "You will then be escorted to the courtroom. You will sit on the witness benches. You will not speak to one another at all until after you have given evidence and taken your place on the public benches." 

"I trust that your questioning of our two star witnesses will not be too stringent?" Snape asked pleasantly, indicating Ella and Hermione. "They had to live through the episode not once, but twice, and then recount it several times, and since it is not Voldemort on trial here, but Malfoy, I sincerely hope, for their sake, that your questions will be confined to the actual event of their abduction, and not the terrible ordeal that ensued?" he finished, with raised eyebrows and another predatory smile. It would not hurt to remind her of the content of their conversation the day before, in case her mind had been elsewhere. Sure enough, she became flustered, and with her hand once again fluttering to her throat in a most unprofessional manner, she replied,

"Oh, no, of course, there is no need whatsoever...of course, I'm afraid I can't speak for my learned friend..."

"Of course!" finished Snape, turning his hungry gaze back to Ella for long moments before folding his arms and returning to the window.

They were soon joined by two Ministry officials, one bearing a tray of vials of Veritaserum, the other a clipboard. After all of the doses had been distributed and ingested and all of their names marked off the list, the party readied themselves for the trial. Snape waited by the door until Ella drew near and left the room beside her, falling into step with her. His intention had been to intimidate her into slowing her pace so that he could take advantage of a moment or two of privacy in which to ascertain how she felt about him. However, he was so exultant at her apparent jealousy over Miss Kovich that he could not resist needling her about it.

"This should be interesting!" he muttered maliciously in an undertone. "Tell me, what do you think of our esteemed counsel for the prosecution?"

"I _loathe_ her, because I think she wants to sleep with you, and she mentally undresses you every time she looks at you." Ella replied unwillingly.

He laughed bitterly.

"And the thought of me with her upsets you, doesn't it?"

"Yes!" she snarled. "And _will_ you? _Will_ you sleep - have sex with her?" 

Damn her, she knew exactly how to phrase her question in order to get the answer she so obviously wanted. He had not realised she was so very manipulative. He struggled not to answer but could not deny the truth potion.

"No!" he snarled, and cursed inwardly. What was the wretched pensieve for, what good did it do if he still felt this way? He stalked off towards the court room. They were nearly at the door now, and he had no more time to question her. He had allowed her to twist their conversation to suit her own ends while denying him the opportunity to do the same.

He sat directly behind her in the court room. Seats filled up all around him but he could not take his eyes off the back of her head. He had spent so many, many mornings staring at the back of her head, lying curled around her with the soft curve of her bottom pressing into his lap, his arm draped around her and cupping her breast, drawing her closer until he could bury his nose in those curls and simply breathe her. His hands gripped his knees until his knuckles turned white, as he tried to hold on to the last vestiges of his self control. Seeing her like this was harder than he had imagined. He had spent years as the proud master of his feelings, a prince of moderation and self control, but seeing Ella again was too much, too hard. No-one, no matter what their sin, should have to tolerate such bitter torment.

He tore his eyes away from her when the Counsels for the Defence and the Prosecution came in, forcing himself to turn the intensity of his gaze on to the Veela. He saw her flush, and smiled grimly to himself. She would carry out his wishes because she thought only of her reward. Let her think that way, he thought, if it suited his ends. More fool her.

Malfoy sauntered into the court room as if he owned the place. He was flanked by two aurors, and a third followed behind, but he might as well have been walking into the drawing room of Malfoy Manor as the gracious host of a cocktail party for all the remorse he showed. Snape saw him turn his head to look directly at Ella and then the bastard actually smiled at her. Snape drew in a breath as he saw Ella stiffen in horror, and she turned in her seat then and raised her head to look at him imploringly. Ah, those eyes, so full of pain and sorrow and need. She needed his comfort, but all that he could do was hope that his eyes would be adequate conduits of strength and support. He tried to read her, but still there was nothing. 

Nevertheless, he saw the relief in her eyes, and a new resolve, and when she turned back to face the front, although he wanted to half rise in his seat and embrace her, he was comforted. She understood, and she would draw on his strength knowing that it stood hand in hand with her own. 

He willed her on, all through her evidence. As soon as she left the stand, however, and took her place on the far side of the room directly in his line of sight, he had to break his gaze. He had done his duty to her, to Dumbledore, to justice and to himself. He had helped her through and he could bear it no longer. He looked away, and although he felt her eyes on him often as the hours passed, he tried to look no more.

Miss Kovich was as good as her word and he wondered at the ease with which she had allowed herself to be influenced. Not that it mattered in this instance, since it had worked to everyone's advantage and Malfoy was on his way to Azkaban, but it did little to bolster what little faith Snape had in the justice system. Once the trial was over and the assembled witches, wizards and witnesses had seen Malfoy taken away and begun to file out of the court room, she led their party back to the long room and simpered at him expectantly. He ignored her completely. He had no more reason to be civil to her and he certainly wanted nothing from her now. He was dimly aware of her disappointment and a flash of anger, but he barely noticed her leave. He was too busy trying to make Ella meet his gaze. He needed to talk to her while she was still under the influence of the Veritaserum. He had to speak to her alone. He had to know why she had left, and whether or not she still loved him at all.

"Professor Dumbledore, how long will it be before the Veritaserum wears off?" asked Hermione anxiously.

"Oh, any time now!" twinkled the Headmaster.

"In that case," said Snape, drawing closer to Ella, "now might be a good time for Ella and me to have a few moments alone!"

"Ah, no, Severus, I don't think so. We're all drained and in need of a good rest. I believe we should all go back to the Leaky Cauldron for butterbeer." Snape glared at the Headmaster, his mouth twisting in an unpleasant sneer as he turned on his heel and stalked back to the other end of the room. 

"Shall we?" the Headmaster continued, and the party began to file into the corridor in order to floo back to the Leaky Cauldron. Snape followed, and caught up in time to see Ella step into the fireplace. Just then a voice called down the corridor,

"Ah, there you all are! So glad I caught you!"

Snape rolled his eyes. It was Fudge. Snape despised the officious little man and Fudge's less than enthusiastic reaction to the verdict on Malfoy had set off various mental alarm bells in Snape's head. He wanted to stay and see what the Minister would have to say, but he realised that he had been given an ideal opportunity to speak to Ella. Taking advantage of everyone's distraction, he elbowed his way past Granger and Potter and stepped determinedly into the fire.

She was still dusting herself down when he arrived in the bar.

"Ella, we need to talk!"

She whirled round and began to back away from him, her eyes wide with agitation. He could scarcely believe the change in her. He still remembered a time when they gravitated towards one another as if magnetic opposites, and he still felt her irresistible pull. As he advanced on her she found that he had backed her up against a wooden pillar that partitioned off the booths along one side of the bar.

"Oh, Severus, I don't – " 

"There's nobody here to rescue you from me this time, Ella! Albus was sidetracked by Fudge, so don't bother looking round me for him!"

"I don't _need_ anyone's help! I can look after myself, I always have!"

"Yes, and I know _that's_ the truth! But I didn't think you wanted to live like that any more! Now, tell me the truth, Ella_, do you still love me_?"

"Yes!"

"Then come _back_ with me!"

"I can't, Severus, I'm sorry – I just need time – "

"Time for _what_?" he expostulated, gripping her shoulders. He tried to catch her gaze, but she would not look him in the eye, preferring instead to fasten her gaze on to the row of fabric covered buttons on his frock coat. 

"For pity's sake, _tell me_!" he rasped, unable to keep the anguish from his voice. "What's going on?"

 "I need time on my own, to think…"

"About _what_?"

She would not answer, and he realised that she had overcome the last traces of the potion.

"Oh, fine, _don't_ tell me!"

There was little point in continuing their conversation. There was little point in anything. Unable to pound any more against the immovable wall of her rejection, he released her roughly and pushed himself away from her. Running his hand through his hair in agitation, he stalked out of the room, muttering harshly with a catch in his throat,

"Consider that your last chance. Stay away from me from now on." 

He walked blindly from the bar and stood at the end of the small yard, beside the wall whose shifting bricks concealed the entrance to Diagon Alley. He leaned against it and took great gulps of air, bent double. There was no-one there to see him, and he needed to collect himself. He supposed that Dumbledore and the others would have returned by now, and perhaps if he went back into the bar he would overhear Ella talking about him and explaining why things had gone so horribly wrong. He knew that his behaviour was pathetically needy, but he hurried back inside all the same.

He was just in time to see her walk into the massive stone fireplace, turn around and lock sad eyes on to his, and then she was gone. Bleak with despair, he did not move. He stared into the empty fireplace, willing her to reappear and run to him, telling him it had all been a terrible mistake, or an elaborate joke, and that she would be going home with him. But only Dumbledore spoke to him, standing between him and the fireplace, breaking Snape's disbelieving concentration.

"Severus? Shall we retire to the snug? I believe the others will be here shortly."

"What? Oh, the meeting. Yes, of course."

Dumbledore smiled sadly and Snape stood aside distractedly while he passed into the snug. He followed him automatically and took a seat in the darkest corner of the small room, where he hoped to remain undisturbed. Lupin sat beside him but Snape did not even bother to glare. In fact, as the room began to fill up with their small group and certain other members of the Order, including Tonks and Shacklebolt, he was grateful for Lupin's silent, unobtrusive company, for it prevented anybody else from inflicting themselves on him. He withdrew into himself and when the meeting began the words washed over him unnoticed. They were speaking of Cornelius Fudge and his trustworthiness or otherwise, and while Snape had very definite opinions he kept his peace. He had failed and she had gone, he had tried but she had left him again, and nothing else mattered. Once the meeting was over he left without a word to anyone save Professor Dumbledore, who granted him a leave of absence from Hogwarts until the following Monday, and sought out Tom the barkeep.

"I want a room, Tom, for the next few days."

"Certainly, Professor Snape. Your room's free till next Tuesday, sir, so you can keep it on, no trouble at all."

"No, I want a particular room. I want the room Miss Redemte has just left."

"Room ten? Right-o then, let me see…yes, that'll be fine. Edie's just gone up there now to clean, it should be ready in half an hour or so…"

He trailed off as Snape scowled at him and made for the stairs at a run. 

Snape reached Ella's door to find it ajar. Bursting in, he startled the elderly maid with a strangled 

"No!" grabbing her arm in a desperate lunge to stop her removing the linen from the bed. She screamed, and he hissed "Leave it! Leave it all! Don't touch anything, I want it all to be left!" She nodded at him fearfully, evidently questioning his sanity, and began to back out of the room. She was too slow, for he continued hoarsely, "Now get out! Get out!" and practically pushed her out of the room, slamming the door shut behind her. He turned round and leaned against it, panting, taking in the details of the room his love had just left.

Gods, her scent filled the room. He could almost feel her presence. It was the same room she had stayed in just seven months before, when he had found her and sent her back to Hogwarts. He crossed over to the fireplace and ran his hand along the mantelpiece, remembering. The kiss they had shared that fateful night had been the beginning of something he had never thought to have. He walked across to the sink. It was still wet, and he trailed his fingers along the bowl, imagining her washing over it that morning. One of her hairs, long and dark, was curled against the porcelain, and he plucked it out and held it, examining it closely, holding it in his palm and watching the candlelight pick out its redness. She had left a glass of water on her bedside table, so he picked that up too and saw the imprint of her lower lip around its rim. His face crumpled and he sat down heavily on the unmade bed, his shoulders shaking as he replaced the glass. Then he turned and put his hand on her pillow, feeling the slight indentation her head had made. That was too much for him, and he lay down and buried his face in it, muffling the anguish that wracked his body. 

When night fell he got up, but only in order to strip off his clothing and crawl beneath the sheets that had so recently covered her, clutching them to him and whispering her name. He might as well have been ten years old again, bewildered and lost in the funfair and crying hoarsely for his mother. He was adrift, confused and alone, and he missed Ella so much that he thought he would die from it. 

He did not emerge from her room for several days. After the first day, Tom began to send trays of food as well whenever Snape called for more firewhisky to be brought. Sometimes he picked at it, trying to assuage the gnawing ache in his stomach, but for the most part he left it untouched. The hunger could never be appeased anyway, nor could the pain in his heart and the despair in his soul be eased. This was far, far worse than the first time. When she had left after the Valentine's Ball he had been devastated, but had managed to rationalise her behaviour by telling himself that she had acted in the heat of the moment and that when tempers had cooled she would gain a little perspective and he would be able to talk her into coming home. Now he had been forced to realise that he had deluded himself. Their time apart had merely made matters worse because she had obviously had the time to consider his many crimes and personal failings and realise that she was far better off without him. She had come to her senses and finished something that ought never to have been started, and all that remained was for him to come to terms with it and forget her. 

He drifted between sleep and wakefulness, oblivion and cold sobriety, and so the days passed. The day before he was due to return to the school there was a knock on his door. He ignored it. He still had half a bottle of firewhisky left, and no other reason to open the door. He was not expecting company. At the second knock, he said thickly,

"Go away."

"Can't do that, Snape, sorry!" a cheerful voice replied.

Tonks.

"Go away."

"Look, there are two ways we can do this. _You_ can let me in, or I can go and get Tom and tell him I'm on official Ministry business. He knows I'm an auror, _he'll_ come up here and let me in."

Snape rolled on to his back and groaned. He fumbled for his wand and summoned his trousers and frock coat from the chair, and pulled them on, then held his shirt together across his chest as he rose to his feet and staggered the few steps to the door. Leaning on it with his head resting on his forearm, he said,

"What do you want, Tonks?"

"I want to come in, of course!"

Rolling his eyes and then grimacing as sharp needles of pain pricked in his head, he unlocked the door and then turned back to the bed. Behind him, Tonks entered the room, made a small sound of disgust at its condition and picked her way over several discarded bottles until she reached the chair.

"Gods, Snape, you don't look too good!" she exclaimed as he raised bloodshot eyes to meet hers. His head was too thick to come up with a suitably sarcastic response, so instead he simply glared at her. "Are you going back to Hogwarts any time soon? Only no-one's heard from you since the trial…"

"I'll be there in the morning."

"Oh. Right, good. Sirius flooed me and told me you were still down here and people were getting worried about you."

"Oh yes, I'm sure _dear Sirius_ is worried!"

"Well, I think he wondered if you'd be back for classes tomorrow."

"You can tell your darling cousin that his services won't be required," he slurred bitterly, his usually nimble fingers fumbling to fasten the buttons of his frock coat. Tonks leaned forward and reached out to help, her open face furrowed with sympathy.

"Here, let me help – "

_"Don't touch me!"_ he spat, recoiling from her and clutching his coat around himself. 

"You miss her, don't you?" Tonks said softly. 

"None of your business."

"Maybe not," she shrugged, "but I'm concerned anyway."

"Don't waste your concern on me. I don't want it."

"Tough, it's there."

"Will you please _go_ now? As you can see, I am absolutely fine and I'll be back at Hogwarts by morning."

"Seeing Ella again didn't go too well, did it?" Tonks continued, unfazed. Snape toyed with the idea of hexing her but he could not trust his alcohol-slackened mouth to form the correct incantation. Physically removing her was not an option either, since he seemed to remember that all aurors were well trained in the Muggle art of self defence. In the end he chose not to reply, which was unfortunate as she seemed to see this as an invitation to make herself more comfortable and curled her legs under her.

_Ella used to sit like that._

"You need to get her out of your system."

"I thought I told you it was none of your business."

"Look, Snape, I've known you a long time, and I'd like to think we were mates – "

"Well, we _aren't_!"

" – And I want to help you get through this!"

"Just leave."

"I know how much you loved her, and – "

"_Love?_ Hah! What would _you_ know? How could you possibly have _any_ idea?" he muttered, his shoulders slumping and his hair hiding his face.

"If it hurts this much," she began hesitantly, "maybe you should try comfrey?"

He snorted in disgust and shook his head.

"To treat an "affair of the heart"? Are you _sure_ you passed auror training?"

"I thought it helped to clean wounds," she said, sliding from the chair until she had taken up a kneeling position at his feet. "It stings at first, but then the wound heals. Clean. And – and here's the leaf, sitting right in front of you."

He raised his head to look at her incredulously. _Was this some kind of sick joke?_

_"What?"_

"Would this help?" She screwed her face up and he watched as her short spiky hair grew long and lustrous until it fell almost to her waist. Her slight, boyish figure ripened and swelled until her robes strained at the seams. Her mouth changed its shape and her face gradually relaxed into Ella's, and when she opened her eyes he saw that they were no longer violet but the clearest green.

_Ella…_

"What the hell are you doing?" he demanded roughly, shaken to the core at the facsimile that knelt at his feet, just as Ella had knelt at his feet that night in his office and he had cupped her cheek, when it had all begun.

She stood, trampling on his bare foot in the process, and placed her hands on his shoulders as if to push him backwards on to the bed.

"I could help you."

He brushed her hands away angrily.

"What _is_ this, your noble sacrifice for the cause? I bet this was Black's idea, the _bastard_! Fob me off with a pale imitation while he goes after the real thing! _Get away from me_!"

"No, Snape, it isn't _like_ that!" she protested as he shoved her away from him and rose to his feet unsteadily. "Let me help you get through this, Snape. Let me help you forget, for a little while…"

Her arms snaked around his neck and Ella's face drew closer and closer to his until her lips grazed against his jaw and kissed him. He sobbed in despair as he felt her lush body mould itself to his, her breasts pressing into his chest, and then her hair was in his hands, running through his fingers as he let himself kiss her. The kiss was desperate and hard and he crushed her to him, seeking out his lost love as if his passion would infuse this echo of her with life and transfigure her into Ella. But this was not Ella. This did not taste like Ella or smell like her and after only a few moments he realised he did not have the stomach to keep up the pretence. He pushed her from him roughly and turned his back on her, resting his hands on the mantelpiece.

"Get out!" he rasped.

"Seduction doesn't agree with _you_, does it, Snape?" Tonks sighed ruefully.

He felt her hand on his shoulder. It felt like Ella's, through his clothes. He doubted that it would feel the same against his skin.

"I just thought – "

"You stupid, _stupid_ girl!You _didn't_ think! Don't you see? I can't stand to _look_ at you!"

She withdrew her hand and he heard her take a deep breath and hold it in. When she finally exhaled he knew she had transformed back, and he scowled at her as he swung round to face her.

"I'm sorry, Snape."

"Fuck off, Tonks."

"I know how you must feel…"

"No, you don't," he said, his voice dangerously low. "How could you possibly understand? How could _anyone_ understand what I've lost?" He raised his eyes to glare at her menacingly. "Leave. And if you ever dare to take such liberties with me again, or tell anybody about my – moment of weakness - I swear I will kill you."

Tonks blanched. She had been on the receiving end of his sharp tongue many times before and was annoyingly inured to it, but he could tell that he was scaring her now. Stupid girl, as if she was worth going to Azkaban for. On the other hand, even a Dementor's kiss was preferable to suffering such as this.

He closed the door behind her and locked it, before turning to survey the wreckage of his room. The thought of Azkaban was a sobering one, and he had the notion that he really should make sure he put all his affairs in order back at Hogwarts before considering taking steps to end his life. Ever mindful of his duty to his students and his Headmaster, he scoffed. How maudlin, and how cowardly. He would no more take his life than he would bother to kill that silly little metamorphmagus. He had enough blood on his hands without adding his own to the mix, and if he died, then his suffering would end and he did not deserve Death's release. No, no suicide he. 

He bent over the sink and turned the tap, splashing his face with cold water then patting it dry. His cursory ablutions complete, he finally finished buttoning his frock coat and sat down heavily on the bed to put on his socks and boots, looking around him sadly. There was nothing of Ella left in this room now. Her signature scent of sweet, feminine jasmine had been replaced by the reek of whisky and misery. He buried his head in his hands. She was gone.


	18. Justification

AUTHOR'S NOTE 

You might find Snape's inner dialogue in the latter part of this chapter to be a little contradictory…it is intentional!

Thanks to all who have left reviews and sent emails. I really appreciate your support.

**Chapter 18**

**Justification**

****

Ella woke suddenly with a snort to find an insistent rhythmic pressure on her left breast. Looking down, she saw Persephone suckling contentedly.

"Mmph. 'lo, Seffie…" she grunted, closing her eyes again, only to open them with a frown as she wondered why Persephone was not in her cot. As the rest of the room gradually came into focus she saw a tall form outlined against the window. Severus was dressed, and his long nimble fingers were working their way down the row of buttons on his frock coat.

"How delicately feminine you are in the mornings, my love," he said dryly. "And so communicative, too."

She propped her head up on her left hand and glared at him.

"Don't push your luck, Severus. I still haven't decided whether or not to forgive you for being so damned attractive to other women," she grumbled.

"Oh, I don't know, Ella," he replied casually, sauntering over to the side of their bed and hunkering down beside her. "You seemed fairly forgiving last night. You forgave me twice, as I recall," he smirked, leaning over to kiss his daughter's head, holding Ella's gaze as he did so.

"Do you _have_ to be so smug about it?"

He cocked his head to one side to consider her question, and a smile twitched the corner of his mouth.

"Believe me, it's a rare enough occurrence to be worthy of note, and besides, I don't believe for one minute that _Tonks_ found me attractive."

"Hmph. Tonks." Ella frowned. "I hope she doesn't see Caius as second best."

"I wouldn't worry about Caius, Ella._ I_ don't." Ella raised her eyebrows noncommittally but said nothing. "Ella, she was doing it out of some misguided sense of – of duty, or pity, or – oh, I don't know _what_ she was thinking, but love didn't have anything to do with it. And nor did Black, to my utter disbelief at the time."

"If you say so."

"I do," he said briskly, planting a kiss on her forehead. "Now get up, we need to see them off."

               ***********************************************************

Week had followed dreary week. It was frightening, really, how quickly the time passed. Each individual day had dragged, of course, the lessons merging into one another to form one homogenous mass of dull repetition, while in the evenings time gained a peculiarly elastic quality, standing still for eternal moments while he wished for oblivious sleep, and yet hours passing in instants when he dwelt on the sculpture and the memories it evoked. But overall, the weeks had flown by until he had become more and more aware that he would soon have been without Ella for longer than they had been together. The realisation had been a sobering one that drove him ever more determinedly to the bottle and its ability to distance him from the pain that gnawed ceaselessly at his gut.

He spoke to no-one of his pain, not even the Headmaster. He guarded it jealously, the jigsaw pieces of his doomed love gathered together and clutched beneath his cloak, to be examined only through the distorting bottom of a whisky tumbler when he was alone by the fire in the deep of the night. 

He became thin, and a little unkempt, but managed to maintain his well-practised façade each day. He would never let it be said that he was in any way derelict in his duty. He survived on a cocktail of whisky, Dreamless Sleep and Pepper-Up potions, and sheer bloody-mindedness, waiting for the fire in his soul to burn itself out. Waiting for her never to have existed, and never to have shown him what might have been.

Black followed her, of course. He only lasted a couple of weeks before he was hot on her heels. Snape would not stoop so low, no, not he. She had left him, and made her choice. He had no case to plead, and would not try. Let the dog go and sniff around her, if it must. Snape had his memories. Nevertheless, the news of Black's departure unsettled him, and he spent every evening thereafter imagining the two of them together, laughing and smiling and no doubt doing a good deal more than that. He would nurse his whisky as he stared at the moving sculpture until the image blurred before his eyes and he could stand it no more.

One day, Black returned. Snape watched jealously as he saw the familiar figure enter the Great Hall and stride between the gathered Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs on his way to the staff table. Nowadays he did not take his old place beside Snape, both parties concerned finding it far easier on their digestion when they sat at opposite ends of the staff table. He glanced quickly at Snape with an odd look in his eyes, but Snape was too full of sharp, hot hatred for the man to be able to interpret his expression. Once Black had taken his seat beside Madam Pomfrey and begun a whispered conversation with her, about Ella, no doubt, Snape scraped back his chair and left the Hall by means of the door behind his place. Back in his rooms once more he brooded into the fire, wondering what Black's return meant.

He recognised Remus Lupin's self-effacing knock on his door later that evening, and chose not to acknowledge it. The knocking, and presumably the werewolf, went away after a while and Snape was able to sink into the fiery amber waters of Lethe, courtesy of several gills of Ogden's' single malt. That night, firewhisky was his sleeping draught and the armchair his bed, and his dreams, suppressed for many nights by his illicit supply of Dreamless Sleep Potion, were full of visions of firelight on entwined limbs and hair coiled across bare flesh, of moans of delight and tender, savage lips dragging across eager mouths. He woke in the cold grey light of dawn with a furred tongue and a head thick with loss and regret. 

Dragging himself to his feet, he made stiffly for the bowl of floo powder on the mantel. He stepped into the fireplace muttering,

"Albus Dumbledore's office."

The usually warm, welcoming room was empty and cold, as he had expected. Albus was an early riser, he knew, but even he did not normally rise until the sun had cleared the horizon. Prepared to wait, Snape slumped into one of the overstuffed wing chairs by the fireplace, and stared bleakly into space.

After half an hour had passed he heard a soft, sleepy squawk, and turned his head slightly to see Fawkes' head emerge from under his wing. He blinked at Snape a few times, and then shifted on his perch, leaning forward as if he was stretching. When the phoenix looked over to the far end of the office, at the door to Dumbledore's private quarters, Snape knew that the Headmaster was on his way. A few moments later the door opened. The Headmaster did not seem surprised to see him.

"Ah, Severus, there you are! How about a cup of tea?"

Before Snape could demur, Dumbledore clapped his hands and his small, nervous occasional table appeared in front of Snape, bearing a tea tray on which stood a large china tea pot and two cups and saucers to match. Snape watched as the pot poured them each a steaming cup of tea, and found that he was most eager for it. He had not realised how thirsty the previous night's abuses had left him. Dumbledore sat in the chair opposite and took his own cup.

"Have you spoken to Sirius at all yet, Severus? Or Remus?"

"I'd rather slit my own throat," he replied coolly. The old man chuckled, but then became serious.

"Sirius leads me to believe that Ella is well, Severus."

"How nice for her!"

He took a sip of tea, and stared down at the willow pattern on the cup, not wanting to meet Dumbledore's gaze.

"She has suffered a great deal you know."

"_She's_ suffered?" Snape gave a hollow laugh. "Well, I'm sure _Black_ has taken great pleasure in kissing her all better!"

"Indeed? Hmm. And why would you think that, Severus?"

He peered at Snape over the top of his spectacles. Snape met his gaze this time, knowing that he could not disguise the bitterness in his eyes any more than he could prevent the scowl from marring his proud face.

"Sticking up for him again, Albus?"

The Headmaster replaced his cup and saucer on the occasional table and it thanked him diffidently, and then he sat back and steepled his fingers thoughtfully.

"Perhaps it's time you took a holiday, Severus. The Easter break is nearly upon us and I believe the climate in France is delightfully temperate at this time of year."

Snape's cup rattled as he put it back on its saucer.

"I see no reason to travel so far, Albus," he rasped. "No reason at all."

"Why did you come to see me this morning, old friend?"

"I don't know," he said hopelessly. How could he admit to either the Headmaster or himself that he had been desperate for any crumb of information regarding Ella?

"Would it help were I to tell you that Sirius Black and Ella are not romantically involved?"

"No, it wouldn't," he snorted, "since I wouldn't believe it for one minute!"

                                                                           ***

A week later, the owl post brought a letter. He had been sitting at breakfast, trying to empty his bowl of porridge despite his lack of appetite. He was aware, as were his colleagues, that he had become painfully thin, and had grown tired of their surreptitious glances and worried frowns, so although his attendance in the Great Hall grew ever more erratic, he endeavoured when he was there to at least try to do justice to his meals.

Everybody in the Great Hall looked up as one as the beating of strong, wide wings alerted them to the arrival of the morning delivery. There were over a hundred, he estimated, probably bringing items left at home by accident over the recent Easter holidays. He was surprised to see a barn owl swoop down away from the others, heading determinedly for him. It dropped a letter on to the table in front of him and gave a soft hoot, before taking off for one of the high windows and the Owlery beyond. Puzzled, he picked it up and examined the handwriting.

                              "_Professor Severus Snape, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."_

It was from Ella. Her handwriting, along with everything else about her, was unmistakeable to him. His hands shook, and he considered leaving the room and retreating to the dungeons to read it, but he could not wait the few minutes that that would require. His heart was beating wildly and he tore the envelope open hurriedly before realising that the last thing he wanted to do was draw attention to himself. Awkward questions might be asked, and he did not want to talk about her. He glared up and down the staff table suspiciously, to assure himself that he was not being watched, and then slowly withdrew the folded parchment. He did not raise it to his nose, to inhale her scent. Time enough for that later, when he was alone and knew what she had to say.

                       "_Severus, I'm sorry. I love you and I miss you.  I'll be home soon. Ella." _

He stared down at the page. There were no hearts and flowers contained therein, no irritating declarations of endless love, but he knew the absolute truth of it. All that he had to do was work out why she had changed her mind. His heart wanted to reject her completely, his pain was still too new and too raw, but at the same time it wanted to sing. His head, too, urged caution. He had never been a man who trusted easily, and she had betrayed him most grievously.

Something must have happened in France to make her change her mind, perhaps something between her and Sirius, and he had no idea what it could be. He replaced the letter in the envelope and secreted it in his robes. 

By the time he had returned to his office and taken the letter out once more, he had hardened his heart. He would not be so easily manipulated. She was up to something. He cast his mind back to their last encounter, immersing himself in the acid pain of it. 

_"Now, tell me the truth, Ella, do you still love me?"_

_"Yes!"_

_"Then come back with me!"_

_"I can't, Severus, I'm sorry – I just need time – "_

_"Consider that your last chance. Stay away from me from now on." _

Well, it wasn't as if she hadn't been warned, he thought as he shaped his expression into a grim mask and flung open the door to his classroom, ready for his first class of the day. 

That evening he composed his reply. It was short and to the point and needed no second draft since he had honed and polished it in his head throughout the day.

                       _"Don't bother. I told you to stay away from me from now on."_

He was a reasonable, careful man, so he made absolutely certain that he was doing the right thing before he sent it. He slept on it and did not take it to the Owlery until the following day. Choosing the same owl that had brought Ella's letter to him, he tied his missive to its leg and sent it on its way. He stood at one of the open windows as it took flight and watched until height and distance shrank it from his view. Soon he would have the answer he dreaded or the answer he craved. Either she would take his words to heart, or she would ignore them and, seeing beyond them, come back to him. And if she came back…

He found himself pondering that very question over the days and nights that followed. If she came back she would force him to open his heart to her again, and he did not want to do that because it had been in pieces since she had left. He would not allow himself the indignity of handing it to her on a silver platter a second time, not until he knew beyond all doubt that she would not leave him again. If she came back, he would make absolutely sure of her before he allowed her back into his life. Into his arms. The memory of what it felt like to hold her flooded all of his senses and he gasped at the intensity of it, his fists clenching at his sides as his body tingled. The sensation wore off too quickly, however, and he was left with the gnawing emptiness that had become achingly familiar since she had deserted him. Desert him she had, indeed, and he would surely be a fool if he were to allow her to do it again. He had trusted her and opened up to her as he had to no other, and he had been betrayed. He would not take her back.

Such thoughts drove him back to the comforting warmth of the firewhisky that was his constant companion, encouraging him as he played their sculpture over and over and flayed his soul with the sharp sting of his own memories.

She would not come back, ever. His culpability was too comprehensive for her to forgive. She knew something of his role in her parents' death and if she knew the whole of it she would never even contemplate a reconciliation. It would be better for them both if she took him at his word and never returned. Suffering the searing loss of her was still far less pain than was his due. 

Thus justified, he withdrew even further into himself, if that were possible. His pensieves became filled to overflowing and still gave him no relief, and when he succumbed to the sometimes irresistible pull of their undertow he would plunge in and wallow there for hours, letting memories of her crash over him. 

                                                                                ***

Nobody had seen fit to tell him that Black had gone back to France. He still made himself attend one meal a day in the Great Hall, but the last time he had seen Black had been at breakfast several days before when he had noticed Black looking at him in a curious, resigned way. His stomach heaved and bile burned the back of his throat as he dwelt on where he could have, must have gone, and what it might mean. A belligerent sneer greeted Lupin's attempt to enlighten him over dinner one evening but unfortunately the werewolf was not easily put off.

"Sirius has been gone for a few days now," he ventured. Snape, hunched jealously over his meal although he was not eating it, did not bother to turn to look at him, snarling,

"Your powers of observation are unparalleled."

"He's gone to France again."

Snape's voice was low and dripped venom.

"What makes you think I want to know?" he said slowly. Lupin shuddered; Snape knew this for he saw his hands shake. "What makes you think I want to _know_!" His voice had increased in pitch and the general hubbub of the Hall quieted as conversations were suspended and faces were turned towards the source of the threatening words. 

Raising his head to cast, through his curtain of hair, a menacing glare that encompassed the expanse of the room and every individual in it, he straightened and gave Lupin a contemptuous sneer.  Then he rose from his seat and swept from the Great Hall before he betrayed any more of his feelings to the silent owners of all those pairs of avid, knowing eyes.

He fancied that he heard their chatter follow him as he descended to the safe depths of his private sanctuary. It grew louder and more scandalised as he grasped one of the half-empty bottles on his sideboard and he tried to drown it out with a roar of frustration as he hurled the bottle into the fire where its contents combusted with a sizzling whoosh. 

He was alone with his thoughts again, and he sank into the protesting depths of his leather armchair and hid his face in his hand. Black had usurped him. She was his now.

Hours later a different sound began to whisper to him from the dying embers of his fire. It was a whizzing that became louder as the spinning head whose arrival it heralded grew larger and began to slow.

It was Black.

"What in Hell do _you_ want?" snarled Snape, filled with loathing and a jealousy that drew the bile to his mouth as if it were a magnet.

"I want you to come to the kitchens."

"It's the middle of the night, Black. Whyever would I want to do _that_?"

"There's someone here I think you need to see." Black paused, and then said gruffly, "I've brought her back, Snape."

There was silence as the two men glared at one another for a moment, and then Black's image disappeared. 

Snape stared at the after image until the colours had greyed. He blinked, but did not move.

_Ella._

She had ignored his words and she had come back, and he knew that he had to face her and hear her out, just in case there was a slim chance that she had come back for him. His brows knitted together and he stood slowly, turned stiffly and began to walk to the door with jerky, uncoordinated steps, like a marionette. Or like a man under the influence of Imperius, unable to resist, except this compulsion was stronger and far more painful.

_Ella._

He wondered why she had come back. Despite her letter he still dared not hope that it was for him, although a small, secret part of him that he feared to acknowledge knew that it was, and rejoiced. Then again, perhaps he would be greeted by Ella and Black, side by side with his arm possessively around her while they announced their engagement. Yes, perhaps that was it. Perhaps they had decided to humiliate him by witnessing his breakdown in a nauseating show of togetherness. Snape knew well the irrepressible glow of new love and it would be blazing from them while they pulverised to dust the brittle shards of his heart. 

_Ella. No._

Surely she could never be so cruel, even to such an undeserving wretch as he. He credited her with finer sensibilities than to subject him to that, and then there had been her letter to him.

"_Severus, I'm sorry. I love you and I miss you.  I'll be home soon. Ella." _

No, she had not come back to tell him she had lost her heart to Sirius Black. She had come back for him, because she loved him and she wanted him back. He wondered what her reasons would be for having left him in the first place, although there was nothing she could say that would convince him to trust her again.

 _Ella._

Halfway to the kitchens he regained sufficient presence of mind to realise that he could have flooed directly to her but, as he walked on, Hogwarts worked its deep magic on his composure, soothing him as it always did, and he began to feel thankful that he was allowing himself a small amount of time to accustom himself to the idea of her return. He wondered how she would look, how she would be, what he would feel when he saw her again.

_The deepest, most desperate desire of his heart. _

_Ella._

He poked a desultory finger at the fruit in the still life that guarded the door to the realm of the house elves of Hogwarts. The door opened too slowly so he stepped through, impatiently pushing it ajar. He closed his eyes for a moment and tried to school his features into something resembling impassivity, but as soon as he rounded the corner and saw her sitting at the end of one of the four long tables, he was lost. Her face was full of love and hope, and he wanted to weep. As she looked at him her expression changed to one of concern, and he realised what a sorry state he was in. He remembered that he had not shaved since the day before, nor had he washed his hair. He made no effort to brush it from his face now, preferring to peer at her through the concealing stray locks. _He used to delight in her caress as she brushed his hair from his face_. He found his voice and rasped,

"So you've come crawling back. What's the matter, were you expecting someone _different_?"

"Severus, you look terrible!" 

He had dreamed of her voice. Tremulous now, but otherwise always so calm and soothing, loving and warm, music to his ears, its cadences never failed to send shivers along his spine. He could not show her how affecting he found just those few words, so instead he made a hasty retreat and barricaded himself securely behind the tall, reliably sturdy double doors of sarcasm and bitterness.

 "Well? What do you want?" he snarled. "And where's your _boyfriend_ gone?"

"Sirius was never my boyfriend, Severus. Please, come and sit down."

He glared at her, hating her for the way she made him love her so. He walked towards her between the two centre tables, their eyes locked. Hers entreated him to hear her out, and he did not dwell on the probable weaknesses that his own laid bare.

"I need to talk to you. There are things I need to tell you," she implored.

"Ah, but what makes you think _I_ need to _hear_ them? Or _want_ to?"

Uncertainty flitted across her face and he was glad of it. She evidently felt the need to explain her appalling betrayal, and was worried that he would not allow her the opportunity. Good. Nevertheless, he pulled out the chair opposite hers and dragged it back up to the table with a loud scrape as he sat down.

"Well? I'm waiting. This had better be good!" he said balefully. He saw no reason to make any of this easy for her, although despite his cold anger he was curious as to the excuses she would offer.

"When I left you, Severus, in February, I was ill. Mentally ill, I mean. I'm better now."

His eyes narrowed and he snarled, 

"Well _that's_ all right, then! Good for _you_!" leaning forward as he spoke, his words dripping with sarcasm.

"Please, Severus, let me explain!"

His lip curled unpleasantly. Mentally ill, indeed! She would have to come up with something better than that facile excuse. He did not see why she could not simply confess that she was now fully cognizant of his sins and could not bear to be near him. That much he would be able to understand, and know there would be no fighting against it. What was done could not be undone. Still, she needed to speak.

"All right. I'm listening," he said, leaning back again and folding his arms, affecting boredom, his face mask-like.

"When I was captured by Voldemort – and you died – Hermione and I never told you the real reason why Voldemort actually cast the Killing Curse on you."

"I killed his pet snake!" he reminded her coldly, wondering where this was leading.

"No, he only used Cruciatus on you then. And – after that – he showed us something. Oh, this is so difficult, _please_ don't look at me like that! He – he- plucked an image, a picture, from inside me, and he threw it into the air…it was a picture of a baby. _Our_ baby."

Well. 

Of all the things he had expected her to say, an announcement of pregnancy had not been among them. He was surprised, shocked even, and her words failed to make the emotional impact on him that he sensed they should. She continued to speak, haltingly now. She was evidently finding it difficult and he felt a fierce flash of dark pleasure at her discomposure. 

"It was six weeks old. He- he made a grasping movement with his hand, and the image crumpled, into his fist, just like a piece of tissue paper. I was in agony- and then he just threw it away, like a ball, over the edge of the precipice, into the abyss, and I felt the blood gushing out of me, down my legs, and I knew I'd lost it! I knew I'd lost _our child_, Severus!"

A muscle twitched repeatedly in his cheek as his jaw clenched. He could almost see a picture of what she described in his mind's eye and he knew that she spoke the truth and that what he saw was almost an echo cast forward through time. He stared at the emerald on her chest, watching the whitening of her knuckles as she clutched it. Distancing himself from her words, whose content was still far too much for him to comprehend, he would not meet her gaze.

"You were- you were distraught," she continued. "You cast the Killing Curse on him then, but he was ready for you and it rebounded back on to you. And so I lost you as well!" 

She was sobbing freely now, he noticed idly. He toyed with the idea of conjuring a handkerchief, or perhaps transfiguring a tea towel, but decided against such a gesture of concern. He did not trust himself to be kind to her in her distress. It would not be in his best interests to fall weeping at her feet and beg her to love him and never to leave him again, particularly when he loathed her.

"I wanted to die too," she continued. "I couldn't bear it. I hadn't even known I was pregnant, Severus, I would have told you!"

He could not look at her, so he watched his fingers trace the knots and whorls of the grain in the oak table. She had been pregnant, and Voldemort had damaged her more than Snape had ever realised. He had to know, now. His eyebrow lifting almost imperceptibly, he said carefully,

"And when you went back?"

"The baby was saved too."

Moments passed. The tension in the air was tangible, swirling and curling around them like a blizzard. He did not feel inclined to relieve it by opening his mouth and passing opinion on what she had said; indeed, he had no opinion to speak of. It was likely that if the baby had been saved by their use of the time turner, it survived still, unless something had happened to her during her prolonged sojourn in France.  A child would exist that was of his flesh, and the notion was so foreign to him that he could feel nothing. The Mirror had shown him the deepest, most desperate desire of his heart, and now Ella was dangling it before him like a carrot on a stick before a recalcitrant mule. He still did not trust himself to look at her but sensed that she was waiting for him to speak, and wondered what she expected him to say.

"I see," he said neutrally at last. "And you told me nothing about it."

"I was scared to, at first."

"Scared…of me?"

"Yes…"

"Hah!"

"No, not of you…not at first, anyway. I was scared of your reaction. Scared you wouldn't want it," – at this his eyebrow arched high on his brow and a sharp, searing pain twisted in his breast as he realised at last the enormity of her revelation - "I wanted more time with you, before I told you, because I didn't want it to spoil what we had together, Severus, it was so good!"

Oh, this was too much. He could not stand to listen to this, and when she leaned across the table to try to reach out for his hand, he leapt backwards and sent his chair clattering to the floor behind him. _Don't touch me! Can't you see, I couldn't bear it!_

"_Good_? Good, was it?" he shouted incredulously. "Oh yes, I remember it well. So _good_ that it sent you running off to another man's arms!"

"No, you don't understand! There's nothing between me and Sirius, there never was!"

"Are you still pregnant?" he shouted, desperate as the yearning to believe her overwhelmed him and his mind's eye filled once more with the vision in the Mirror of Erised, where he held a baby in his arms and smiled with such pure, sweet joy that it made his soul cry to remember it.

"Yes! Yes. Twenty eight weeks now."

She was carrying his child. His child. _Their child_. He was to be a father, and yet she had fled from him, knowing that his child was growing in her womb. He could not comprehend how Ella, his love, his own sweet Ella, could have been so mendacious, so cruel. He was breathing heavily, his hair askew and his eyes wild. All pretence at detachment was gone. He looked down at her, finding that her robes did too good a job of disguising her condition, and he knew that he had to hurt her. He could not help himself, and he was compelled to lash out with the most effective weapon he had at his disposal; his own bitterness. His hands clenching and unclenching, he said sardonically,

"Are you _sure_ it's mine?"

"Oh Severus, please don't do this-"

"I only ask, because, you see, it's all rather difficult to _believe_! I mean, who in their right mind would do what you've done?"

"That's the whole _point_! I'm trying to explain to you, Severus, I wasn't _in_ my right mind!"

"And now you are? How convenient!"

"Yes! Now I _am_! Will you just sit back down and let me _explain_?"

He glared at her coldly, but complied. Her explanation would be interesting.

"We were so happy, and I was just waiting for the right moment to tell you. And then I started throwing up every morning, and I thought you'd notice for yourself."

He frowned distantly, remembering. Waking up to find her nestled in his arms, her soft snores making him smile into her hair; other mornings waking to find his arms empty and her place beside him still warm so that he would bury his face in her fragrant pillow. Half asleep and feeling her crawl back into his arms and the contentment it would bring.

"Every morning?" he wondered out loud.

"Yes, but you were usually asleep. Anyway, then the nightmares started. They just got worse and worse, and they were always the same. It got so that I couldn't look you in the eye, in case I saw an echo there of – well, of what you used to be. I kept thinking about my parents and Phoebe."

Ah, he had known. He had always known that his past would drive her away. He had been right all along. She had come to tell him about the baby and then leave once more, and even the joyous despair of setting eyes on her this one last time was more than a wretch such as he deserved. She continued,

"My hormones were in overdrive because of the baby, and they sent me haywire. I couldn't think straight. I thought everyone was against me, I was completely paranoid."

"Why didn't you confide in me? Didn't you know you could tell me _anything_?" He was unable to prevent a plaintive note from creeping into his voice, although he knew she would notice.

"You –I –I – I wanted to tell you so many times. When I was feeling okay. But then, more and more, I managed to convince myself that – that – oh, Severus, I'm so sorry!" 

She began to cry again, taking deep, gulping breaths.

"That _what_?" he asked impatiently.

"That – that you were trying to kill our child! You were always brewing potions and I thought you were plotting with Madam Pomfrey to poison me - "

Why on earth would he do that? How could she think that? Was she _mad_? Had she never known his heart _at all_? 

He flung his hands in the air in exasperation.

"_Poison _you?"

" - So I stopped going to see her. I couldn't tell anyone, if I had they might have realised how ill I'd become, and none of this would have happened."

"And why would I want to kill my own child? Why would I want to harm _you, of all people?"_

_Don't you know I'd die for you, even now?_

She shrugged helplessly.

"Because you killed the rest of my family, so why not finish the job?"

"_What_?"

"It made perfect sense to me at the time! I _know_ how it must sound to you now, it sounds crazy to me too, but you have to understand, Severus! I felt _so guilty_ about loving you so much! And then, you'd spent so many years on your own, I really believed you wouldn't want to have to adjust to having a baby, as well as me…"

"No, of course!" he laughed bitterly. "Why on earth would _I_ want a normal, _happy_ life? I was made to be alone, wasn't I? Well, that's exactly what I am. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've heard enough of this _drivel_! I have a bottle of Ogden's waiting for me…"

He made as if to stand up once more. She had told him that she had known she was pregnant with his child since days before their perfect Christmas, and she had not told him. They had exchanged gifts on Christmas morning, and yet she had concealed from him knowledge of the greatest gift she could ever give him. He could not understand how she could have treated him so ill. He could scarcely believe what he was hearing, and could stomach no more of it tonight.

"Where are you going?" she asked tremulously. "Don't go!"

"I said, I've _heard enough_!"

It was true. His mind was reeling and he needed to retreat and regroup. His heart was awash with seething emotion and he hardly knew from one moment to the next how he felt. Driftwood taken by the waves to be dashed against the rocks would fare better than he. The only thing of which he was certain was that he could not afford to risk her closing in for the kill, his heart would not bear it; so instead he fired off a parting salvo by continuing,

"And I have my position here to consider. I think you'd better go now, don't you? It wouldn't be seemly for people to see you in your…_condition_. Go and carry on your new life with your new _boyfriend_," He leaned across the table to spit the venom of his words into her face and relished every moment. He would rather die than harm a hair on her head but that did not mean that he did not want her to fully empathise with the extent of his suffering and what better way than to inflict it on her? Her eyes widened in desperation as she realised that he meant what he said.

"Severus, please! How many more times do I have to say this? I don't want Sirius, I want _you_! It's _always_ been _you_! I was ill, I couldn't help it! I am _so_ sorry!" 

She shouted after him as he strode out of the room and her words made him falter inside, but he did not stop. Let her dwell on his words, let them roil in her gut and fester until the bile rose to her throat and choked her with the same bitterness he had endured. She deserved nothing less.

Once outside in the dark, lonely corridor, he forced himself to increase his pace as he made for the dungeons even though every step he took put a greater distance between them. 


	19. Calculation

**Chapter 19**

**Calculation**

Caius and Tonks intended to walk to Hogsmeade station and catch the Hogwarts Express for the first leg of their journey. The train passed through only once a week in the summer holidays, and the next time it called at the village it would be bringing students for the start of the new academic year. For this trip, however, the couple hoped to have a compartment all to themselves. Tonks confessed this shortly after they had greeted the Snape family in the Entrance Hall, and Severus gave Ella a supercilious smile. Ella frowned and linked her arm through her husband's, still unconvinced, but nevertheless it was she who suggested that they all walk into the village together.

"It's a lovely day, and I'd like to call in at Gladrags and Honeydukes," she explained, a little too casually for her husband's liking. He looked down at her suspiciously but acquiesced.

Once the party had been walking for around ten minutes and had reached the narrow lane beyond the main gates to the school, Ella released her husband's arm and left him to push Persephone and continue his conversation with Caius while she dropped back a little to fall into step with Tonks who had fallen behind after stumbling over a succession of small rocks in the road.

"I, er, I meant what I said last night, Ella," Tonks started awkwardly. "It's brilliant, seeing the three of you together."

"Thanks, Tonks," Ella smiled, wondering what was coming next.

"I might have said something last night that, well, sort of, might have sounded a bit odd…"

"Yes?" 

"Erm…well, it's just that…I popped in on Snape after the trial, while he was at the Leaky Cauldron, I sort of thought he might like a bit of company, people were so worried about him after what you – I mean, you know, after what happened…"

Ella was about to admit that Severus had confessed all the night before, but thought better of it. It would be far better to hear Tonks' recollection of events. It was not that she expected there to be any discrepancies, but she sensed that Tonks was far more open than her husband, and as a man, he might have found certain details unimportant in his account and so might have omitted them. And, after all, he was a Slytherin, so self-interest was bound to play a part in anything he said or did, whether he was aware of it or not. She knew this to be true, and accepted it as part of his character. She smiled inwardly, realising that she too epitomised her own house. A cunning Ravenclaw, indeed. 

"And how did you find him?" she asked carelessly.

"Oh, terrible!" said Tonks emphatically. "Empty bottles everywhere, unmade bed, it was a tip! Actually, now I come to think about it, it reminded me of my own place…" She frowned, and drifted off into thought for a moment, then shook herself and continued cheerfully, "Curtains closed, no lights on, dark and gloomy…"

"Severus or the room?" Ella asked.

"Hah! Both! He was in a bad way. People had been wondering whether he'd bother to go back to the school. Sirius told me. I decided to go and see if I could cheer him up."

"And how did you think you'd go about it?" Ella tensed as she spoke, trying to force a note of casualness into her tone. Tonks looked at her guiltily and mumbled,

"I was just going to talk to him, maybe tell him a few jokes…"

Ella looked at her dubiously.

"Jokes?"

"Yes, I know. I suppose I got a bit ahead of myself, I didn't stop to think he might not be in the mood for jokes."

"Tonks, he's _never_ in the mood for jokes!"

"S'pose not. So anyway, when I saw what a state he was in, I just…I mean, he looked so sad, and I thought…well, it's not as if he's _unattractive_, is it, he looks a lot like Caius and Caius is drop dead gorgeous!" she said, lowering her voice conspiratorially so that the two men in front would not hear.

"He's _far_ from unattractive!" Ella said waspishly. "Are you telling me you tried to seduce him because you fancy him?"

"Gods, no! To be perfectly honest, Ella, he's not my type. He'd drive me absolutely batty. No offence," she added hurriedly. "But it wouldn't have been _too_ much of a stretch, you know, to force myself. I thought it'd help. It just seemed like a good idea at the time. But it wasn't. He got _really_ cross, actually!"

"When you morphed into me?"

"Yeah. I'm sorry, Ella, it was only a kiss, and he only did it because he was drunk and upset."

"What happened, exactly?" Ella pressed, staring at her husband's broad, black-clad back with a gnawing, desperate need for reassurance. Now she knew exactly how he must have felt when he had suspected her of being seduced by Sirius Black in France.

"Nothing, that was it!" replied Tonks emphatically. "I turned into you, he kissed me, pushed me away and swore at me. Then I transformed back, and left. But I think it _did_ work, you know, because he was back at Hogwarts the next day!" she finished happily. 

The knot in Ella's stomach began to unravel and she heaved a sigh of relief. Tonks was a Hufflepuff, and a very open person, in spite of her Auror training. Ella believed her. She had believed Severus, of course, but had wondered about his ability to tell her the _entire_ truth, suspecting him of the 'selective honesty' of which he had accused her over Sirius. Now she felt a little guilty for doubting him, so she simply grinned at Tonks and did not tell her that Severus had such a highly developed sense of duty that she was sure he would have returned to his post without her intervention. Better to let her think that she had done something to help. Then she picked up her pace a little and caught up with the two brothers, Tonks stumbling along behind her, and she slipped an arm around her husband's waist and squeezed him to her. Ah, he felt so good, and she smiled softly up into his eyes as he embraced her.

"And what have you two been gossiping about?" he asked, raising an enquiring eyebrow, his expression turning to dawning comprehension and a slight frown as he realised the probable nature of her discussion.

"Let's just say I might 'forgive' you again when we get home!"

He stopped in his tracks and released his hold on the pushchair for a moment so that he could take hold of his wife's shoulders and give her a deep, penetrating look. 

"You doubted me, didn't you?" he accused. "You had to ask Tonks!"

"I simply wanted to hear both sides of the story!"

His eyes narrowed and his lips tightened impatiently, but she simply raised an eyebrow. His drew together into a frown, but he simply shook his head and pulled her to him to share a deep, searchingly tender kiss. When they broke apart it was to see Caius and Tonks quite a way ahead, hand in hand.

"She seems quite taken with him," Ella said thoughtfully.

"The Fates help us!" Severus replied fervently as they rounded the corner on to the lane that became, eventually, the main road into Hogsmeade.

                 ********************************************************

He closed the door to his rooms behind him and sank against it, breathing heavily. He had stopped short of running, he was a man far too in control of his emotions to allow that, but nevertheless his lungs were burning and his heart pounded in his chest. She was carrying his child. _His child_. A child he had thought he would never have. He straightened and made for the bathroom, where he could splash cold water over his face. He stooped over the marble basin and stared at his reflection in the glass. He wore a haunted expression. Haunted by hopes and dreams that had vanished into the ether long since and would again, of that he was certain. 

Back in his bedroom, his eyes were drawn to the sculpture. He made as if to go to it but quickly thought better of it and instead turned from it in agitation in favour of pacing the room. He did not know what she wanted from him, but it was probably the satisfaction of knowing that she had rubbed a little more salt into the wound that used to be his heart. Changing his mind, he made for the sculpture a second time and picked it up, but it simply served to mock him by reminding him of how deliriously close they had been, and so he raised his arm as if to throw it against the wall. But in spite of all that he had learned, still he could not bring himself to cast it aside and so in desperation he placed it on the low table in front of the fire and sat before it as he had done countless times before. 

"Vivat!" he whispered as he placed a hand on each of the two exquisitely crafted figures, and they came to life, dancing, moving around one another as he watched, his face twisted with pain. 

He was startled by a sudden rap at his door. Of course, he ought to have known that she would follow. No helpless wallflower she. He closed his eyes and flashes of memory passed before them; Ella in the library, refusing to return his book, Ella outside Florian Fortescues, refusing to meet him in the Leaky Cauldron, Ella disarming him of his wand high on a lifeless plateau with fire and determination in her eyes and refusing to give in to the horror and so now, of course, Ella at his door, refusing to let him walk away from her.

"Severus, it's me. Let me in, please. I know you're there." He got up and walked slowly to the door, pausing as he tried to contain his roiling emotions. "Please, Severus! I'll wait here all day if I have to!"

He removed the protective wards and then pulled open the door roughly. Her face was puffy from the tears she had shed and her eyes were rimmed with red, but even with the meagre light given off by the wall sconces they looked greener than ever and he reeled with the mental associations they evoked in him. He had not been this close to her since the Leaky Cauldron, after the trial, and he wanted to drown in the clear green depths of her eyes now, become hopelessly lost in the verdant forest of her gaze and never see the cold sunlight again. He turned away quickly and went over to the window, turning his back on her to hide the raging need in his own eyes.

"Come to twist the knife a bit more?" he said bitterly as he sensed her come up behind him. 

"I never wanted it to happen," she began. "I couldn't help myself. It was – a psychosis. Paranoia. I couldn't stop thinking about Phoebe and my parents, how I wasn't there when they died – it all got mixed up inside my head, until it was as if I needed this baby, like a second chance – and it was _yours_, part of _you_, and I _love_ you!"

"_Love_ me? Hah!" No, she would not have treated him so badly if she had loved him. Surely there could be no justification for what she had done.

"I want this baby _so much_, Severus. All my instincts were telling me so, and I had to do all I could to protect it,"

"From _me_?"

"Yes! From everyone! I was behaving totally irrationally, I know that _now_. But Sirius helped me through it, and-"

"Oh, bloody Sirius!" he spat, unable to bite back the interjection.

"He helped me! He made me realise I _needed_ help, he made me see a doctor."

"Why did it have to be _him_, of all people?"

"Does it matter _who_ it was?"

He was silent, brooding now. Her hold on him was still so strong that in complete contradiction to his internal dialogue he had been on the verge of turning to face her and letting her do with him as she would rather than continue to deny himself her love. But then she had to mention Sirius bloody Black, and once more he was pulled sharply back into a quagmire of seething jealousy. Ella, of course, was nothing if not persistent and the next thing he knew she was right behind him, slipping her arms around his waist. The contact made him stiffen, but he had for so long craved her touch that he knew he could not push her away. She held him, splaying her hands across his chest and pressing herself against him so that the swell of her belly, the belly that was home to his child, pressed in to the small of his back. His head was swimming as he fought to control himself and he was just beginning to regulate his breathing when he felt it. A brief nudge against the curve of his buttocks. He flinched instinctively. Even though he had never felt such a thing before, he knew what it signified.

"What was that?" he said carefully.

"That was your child, love."

With a shuddering intake of breath, he reached out to the stone lintel and grasped it convulsively. 

_Oh, Ella! _

She loosened her grip on him and he felt her hand on his shoulder.

"Turn around, love? Let me introduce you."

He sagged and turned round to face her, staring into her eyes and at a loss. He did not know what to do. He had felt their child move, and he was struck dumb. Ella unfastened her robe and shrugged it off to reveal for the first time her swollen belly, a dark green sweater stretched tight over it. His eyes had dropped to it and his breath hitched in his throat as she reached for his hand and placed it on her. His fingers splayed out over her, and he was awestruck. 

As the baby kicked again, his eyes widened in surprise and he sank to his knees, lifting the sweater and looking up questioningly into Ella's eyes before pressing his cheek against her satiny skin. He snaked his left arm around her, pulling her to him while his right hand caressed and pressed her stomach as he acquainted himself with his child. He could feel fluttering against his long, sensitive fingers and he closed his eyes, concentrating on the incomparable phenomenon of life secreted away inside her. He felt her hesitant touch as she began to stroke his hair and he pressed his cheek more closely to her, allowing her the comfort it appeared to give her, and accepting that he himself savoured it too.

He stayed on his knees, holding her fast to him. His arm curved round her thigh and up across her buttocks and his fingers rested across the base of her spine, holding her firmly and intimately, as a lover would. He had been her lover. He could have been her husband, once. Kneeling at her feet as if in supplication, he was halfway to begging her to mean what she said, to prove that she would not leave him again, but he could not bring himself to speak. He did not want to break the spell, wanting to maintain the contact with his baby and with his love. She began to stroke his hair back from his temples and her tenderness made him want to weep. 

Her fingertips brushed the top of his cheek and sent shivers through him, and as time passed and the room brightened with the joyous dawn she murmured softly,

"Severus, I need to sit for a while…"

He released her abruptly and rose to his feet, turning swiftly away from her in order to hide the raw emotion that surely shone in his eyes. The spell was broken, and while he did not regret his show of vulnerability he felt obliged to mask it well, if words were to be spoken. 

"Lie down over there," he said tersely, gesturing towards their bed. _His_ bed. "You should probably try to get some sleep."

"Will you join me? Hold me again?"

Her gentle touch on his arm was more now than he could bear, reminding him of happier times, and he replied stiffly,

"No, I don't think so. Go on."

She looked into his eyes beseechingly but he dropped his gaze and took a further step back. It was safer that way. He watched her climb reluctantly into bed with an almost irresistible urge to follow, to curl up behind her and spoon his body into hers, bury his face in the fragranced softness of her hair and lose himself in the bliss that was her embrace. He did not, of course. He watched over her from the relative safety of his armchair, unable to let himself join her, equally unable to let her out of his sight.

Once he had satisfied himself that she slept, by listening carefully to the yearningly familiar rhythm of her breathing and unconsciously regulating his own so that they breathed as one, he rose to his feet and picked up the sculpture from the low table beside his chair. He replaced it on the mantelpiece and then walked silently around the bed. She was lying on her side with one hand resting protectively over her abdomen. Relaxed in sleep, she snuggled into his pillow with the hint of a smile accentuating her beauty. He almost gave in to the irrepressible need to hold her, his hands reaching out as if to draw her into his arms, but he forced himself instead to stand and stare, greedily taking in every detail of her face, making the most of a luxury long denied him. When at last she stirred in her sleep and wriggled over until she faced his chair, he leaned over her and pulled the counterpane until it covered her shoulders. He let his hand drift across her hair as he withdrew, and then he left her bedside and settled once more into the calming familiarity of his seat by the fire, remembering the time he had kept a constant vigil over her as she thrashed feverishly in his bed. Now she was still and serene and that might as well have been a lifetime ago. Would that he had a time turner, so that he could go back to those heady days where their love was a newly printed book, pristine with its wonders waiting to be revealed. He would read it so differently now, and the denouement would make his heart sing with joy. Better than the cacophony of grief and rage that drowned his every thought.

The morning grew old, and she slept on. Snape sat, and watched, and waited, and thought. He felt as a man who stood at the edge of a precipice. It would be so easy to take the dive and fall back into her, to abandon himself. He ached to do it. He went over and over it in his mind's eye, the slow ascent from his chair, the five or six hesitant steps across to his bed, climbing up to lie beside her, drawing her sleeping form into his arms, empty too long; and then the kiss, oh, the kiss that would follow, the softness of her lips and her sighs, the love in her eyes. He could almost taste her, so potent were his memories and his desires.

But he did not move. She had done nothing to earn his forgiveness and he _had_ to keep himself reined in, controlled, impassive. Safe. He had spent weeks in a state of unremitting misery and while the routine he had enforced upon himself in order to cope with her loss was far from satisfactory, consisting as it did of black depression and angry wakefulness, it nevertheless saw him through from one day to the next and allowed him to fulfil his teaching obligations. He did not expect that his life would get any easier, but he was swiftly coming to the conclusion that another rejection by Ella would make it too unbearable for even one such as he to endure.

Then again, there was the ghost of a chance that if she was able to persuade him that her volte-face was sincere, persuade him beyond any shadow of doubt that he need not fear the abandonment he so dreaded, perhaps they could find their way back to one another. A thrill ran through him at the thought of a chance of happiness, but he wasted no time in dismissing it; at least, until he could decide how best to guarantee it.

By the time she awoke, having slept for over three hours, he was even more determined to reject her again. He had placed his trust in her once, wholeheartedly and contrary to everything that he was, and she had trampled him underfoot. He would not make that mistake again. He had to make it clear to her that their relationship was dead and buried and should remain undisturbed. He had to shun her and he had to turn his back on his own child. 

If she fled from his cruelty, unwilling and unable to weather the storm of his rejection, then he would be vindicated and his sorry excuse for a life would go on until Charon took him on what would be a longed-for journey. He did not deserve her anyway, would never deserve her, so a second chance for them ran against all the odds.

On the other hand, if she stood her ground and refused to be cowed by whatever spleen he chose to vent at her, if she fought to regain his trust and his love, then he might be able one day to allow himself to trust her. It was not pride, it was not underhand, it was not Slytherin, it was not manipulative. It was self preservation, no more and no less, for if he allowed her back into his life too easily then she would be his destruction. Losing her had been bad enough and would be again, but to lose a child as well, his child, would be unendurable. 

He heard the rustle of the crisp linen sheets as she stretched out her arm.

"Severus…Severus?" 

His face drew itself into a frown. His name was the first word to cross her lips as she awoke and its sweet sibilance sent tremors rushing down his spine.

"Over here."

"Oh, Severus, you're here!" she said with relief, he noted, sitting up and swinging her legs over the edge of the bed.

"I wasn't about to go anywhere," he asserted coolly, ignoring the frisson he felt at her bright eyed enthusiasm at his presence. "I didn't want to have to worry about you waking up and running around the school trying to find me. Someone might have seen you."

"Oh. Well, why _shouldn't_ anyone see me?"

"Because you are quite noticeably pregnant, and if you were seen then your dirty little secret would be out!" he said mordantly, leaning forward in his chair, one hand on each arm. "And I know how you _love_ to have your little secrets!"

Her eyes widened in surprise. She had evidently been expecting a less hostile reaction.

"Oh, Severus, please! Have you been sitting there all this time, brooding about this? I thought I explained it all last night."

"Oh, you did, very eloquently, very persuasively. The little kick was a nice touch, very clever. Worthy of a _Slytherin_, even!" He noticed her bristle at his tone and he continued, allowing pure vitriol into his voice. It was surprisingly easy to do. He did still loathe her for what she had done to him, after all. "But I have my position here to consider, don't I? It wouldn't be _seemly_ for you to go gadding about the school looking like _that_, would it?"

"Seemly?" 

"Yes, everybody would know that you're carrying my child, and they _already_ know that we aren't together any more. What a _laugh_ they'd all get," he continued acidly.

"Not together? But Severus, I _want_ us to be together! I thought you did too! That's why I came back to you!"

"I told you not to _bother_! And _now_, what _I_ want is for you to leave here and never come back!"

His voice was harsh and grating, and his mouth twisted as he tried to regain his composure. He glared at her and she held his gaze in horrified disbelief. Finally he continued in a low voice,

"I want to forget I ever laid eyes on you."

She did not believe him, crossing over to him rapidly and kneeling at his feet, her hands on his knees.

"I know that's not true, Severus," she insisted, clutching at the emerald around her neck and holding it up to him. "You gave me _this_, remember? Do you think I haven't seen you? Do you think I haven't known how you've been suffering? And I _know_ you. Like no one else ever has. So _don't pretend_!"

He did not want to look at her so he leaned back in his chair and covered his eyes with his hand, saying tiredly,

"Just leave, Ella, can't you? I doubt very much that you're here to stay this time anyway, so why must you insist on prolonging the agony?"

She grasped his wrist and pulled his hand away from his face. "No! I've run away from you too many times, I'm not going to do it any more! I _know_ what I've put you through. But I have a lifetime to make it up to you. _Please_. Let me."

Such infernal stubbornness. 

"You can't seriously expect me to take you back!" 

"Maybe not, but even so, I _want_ you to, more than anything!"

He wanted it too, but he could not. Now was not the time for weakness, and he was still too shocked and too angry with her to relent. She had done nothing to regain his trust. Nothing. He looked around the room uncomfortably, anywhere in order to avoid having to look at her, because he could see that she had no intention of giving up just yet. She used his knees to support herself as she struggled to her feet, and he forced himself to remain still as she climbed awkwardly on to his lap. Closing his eyes as if that way he could shutter out the sensations he gripped the arms of his chair as he felt her weight bear down on him, felt her body press to his, her arms twining around his neck, her lips on his hair. She held him fast to her chest and then he could resist no more, the sweet softness and the scent of her impelling him to embrace her. He buried his nose in the deep valley of her breasts, as he had done so many times before, and, hesitantly and against his better judgement, he held her close, allowing the invasion of all his senses, allowing her to surround and envelop him.

"Oh! Oh, Severus, I've missed you so much!"

His grip tightened around her and his breath caught in his chest. She was manoeuvring him into taking her back, knowing his weaknesses and preying on them just as surely as the Dark Lord would do. His eyes snapped open. He could not, _would_ not give in to her. She had wronged him and he was in no mood to forgive and forget. He doubted he would ever forgive her, for she had betrayed him in the worst way possible. She had shown no faith in him, and had deceived him for weeks. He was justified in turning her away, and the timeous reminder of Voldemort's manipulations enabled him to break her spell, for now. He released her, pushing her carefully from his lap so that he could stand up. He brushed his hair back from his face with affected carelessness and said formally,

"Stay for now, then, if you must. Your old rooms are waiting for you, and Poppy will want to examine you. I take it I am the last to know about - about the baby?"

"No, hardly anyone knows."

"Hmph! That won't last long. The word will no doubt spread like wild fire."

"Can't I stay here, with you?" she pleaded.

"No. You said yourself, once, you were only here by invitation." That was good. Turning her own words back on her meant that she could not reasonably contradict him, and had the added advantage of stinging her with their cold cruelty.

"Will you come with me?" 

Persistent as ever, he thought, and wondered how difficult he would have to be before he drove her away for good.

"I'm sure you can remember the way. Oh, and wear your robes at all times, they disguise your - condition. And try not to be seen too much."

He could not afford to let himself be moved by the unspoken questions in her eyes or the tear that threatened to spill down her cheek. Instead he folded his arms and stood watching her slip on her shoes and cloak, and leave.

Once she had gone he stood and stared at the door for a very long time. 

After a while, the shock and disbelief that kept threatening to overcome all rational thought receded a little, and he began to go over the events of the few months since Christmas. It was painful, but he cast his mind back to Ella's many mood swings of that time. Naturally enough, he had dismissed them as part of the after-effects of her ordeal with Voldemort, and her discovery of his own part in the deaths of her parents and sister. Now, with the benefit of hindsight, he could see all too clearly that the signs had been there, had he not been so riddled with guilt and fearful of losing her that he had deliberately blinded himself to them. 

He remembered the day he had come across Ella in the Infirmary, and her explanation that she was there for some gynaecological matter. He had accepted her words at face value. What if he had not? What then? He cursed the fact that his aptitude as a Legilimens did not extend to reading the woman he loved. If she had not been so closed to him then none of this sorry mess need have happened.

If others, too, had seen fit to point it out to him it could all have been avoided, he realised. As he sat on the edge of his bed he realised that not only had the Headmaster known – must have known, in order to expedite her transfer to Beauxbatons so quickly – but Poppy Pomfrey had evidently been in possession of all the facts, and probably ever since Ella's and Miss Granger's rescue. Poppy Pomfrey, the woman who had been entrusted with maintaining his wellbeing for more years than he cared to remember, had not seen fit to safeguard it in this instance. He had been betrayed most cruelly.

He strode purposefully along the corridors, determined to tackle Madam Pomfrey before the luncheon bell sounded. He had no appetite today, and by the time he had finished with her he doubted that she would either. He thrust open the doors to the empty infirmary and shouted her name.

"Pomfrey! Where are you? I think we need to have a little chat!"

"In here, Severus!" she called from her office, puzzled at his tone, her head poking out through the half open door. She retreated inside as he stormed towards her, fearful of the threatening black scowl that marred his features.

"Why did you not see fit to tell me about my child?" he barked, his lips drawing into a tight line as he loomed over her. She sank into the chair beside her desk and her eyes dropped.

"Oh dear!" she said, shaking her head. "Oh, Severus, has she come back?"

"Yes! She came back in the night. She had quite a lot to tell me, Poppy!"

"How is she, dear?"

"How is she?" he repeated tightly. "_How is she_? How, indeed! She tells me that she is _pregnant_, Poppy, _that_ is how she is! She tells me that she was delusional, and that she thought her life, and her – _our_ – baby's life was in danger! From me! And how do you think _I_ am, hmm? After all this time, to discover such a thing? To see her again after everything she – how do you think_ I_ am? Why didn't you _tell_ me?"

"I couldn't, dear, it wasn't my place," Madam Pomfrey apologised.

"Not your place? How many years have we known one another, Poppy? How many times over do I owe you my life, or at least the use of many of the more major of my bodily functions?"

"Ella wanted to tell you in her own time, Severus. I had to respect her wishes. But I must say, I had no idea what she was going through…the poor dear!"

"But she _didn't_ tell me! She left me instead!"

"I couldn't help that!"

"You've let me suffer, all this time, and never once thought to tell me?"

"It was for Ella to tell you, and now she has."

"Several months too late! I just - I still don't see why you couldn't have _told_ me!"

"I keep telling you, it wasn't my _place_!"

"What, even after she'd _gone_? Have you _any_ conception of what I've been through?"

 "Well, if what you say she's told you is true, I wouldn't have done either of you any good if I _had_ told you!"

"But I could have gone _after_ her!"

"And what would _that_ have achieved, Severus? Listen to what you're saying."

"Gah!"

"You had to wait for her to come back to you. And now she has."

"Oh, so now _you're_ saying I should welcome her back? I might have known _you'd_ stick up for her."

The door was pushed open behind him and he wheeled round ready to lash out at whoever had had the gall to interrupt them. It was Ella, and his hands balled into fists as he fought the urge to beat them into the desk in his frustration. She addressed Madam Pomfrey, but she looked at him.

"I've come for a check, Madam Pomfrey, now I'm back. I could come back later if it's not a good time."

Madam Pomfrey sank into her chair gratefully and said,

"It's a perfect time, dear, now that both of you are here together. Severus, would you like to hear your baby's heartbeat?"

He tore his gaze from Ella and scowled at the stupid woman, his features twisting with conflicting emotions. Of course he wanted to hear it, he wanted nothing more. He also wanted to know that Ella was his happy ever after, and he wanted to know whether or not the Fates would grant his wish or continue to mock him for the rest of his days.

"No, I would not!" he retorted vehemently, and before they could object, he brushed past Ella and swept out, slamming the door behind him as he went.

He was halfway to Albus Dumbledore's office when he changed his mind. The red mist of anger that fogged his mind had obscured his rational thought processes, but as it dissipated he decided that he was no longer in any mood to confront the old man. He took a left turn into a quiet corridor that he knew led to a staircase which would give onto the first floor landing of the east wing. Thence, it would be only a short walk to the dungeon stairs. The staircase, however, had different ideas and as soon as Snape stepped on to it, it began to grind slowly into life, shifting until it was obvious that Snape would be making his descent to the landing on which stood the huge stone phoenix. What was more, Albus Dumbledore was standing at the foot of the stairs, waiting for him.

"Ah, there you are, dear boy!" he smiled expansively. Snape glared at him. "Would you care for tea and crumpets?"

"Of course, Headmaster," he replied stiffly, inclining his head. It was fruitless to demur. He might have decided he did not want to see Dumbledore until he had had a chance to take stock of his new situation; the Headmaster and the school obviously had other ideas. He followed in the wake of the Headmaster's long purple cloak like an angry cleric given cause to regret his vocation. 

Once they were settled into the two cosy armchairs that flanked the fire in Dumbledore's office, Snape broke his sullen silence.

"She's back, Albus."

"Indeed she is, Severus."

"Why didn't you tell me she was pregnant? I assume that you knew all along?"

"You assume too much. I found out only after Sirius returned some few weeks ago."

"Why wasn't I informed at that time, Albus?" he asked coldly.

"I did not consider that it was in your best interests."

"And you would presume to know what my best interests are."

"In this case. It would not have profited you, had you gone after her before she was ready."

"Ready? Before she was ready to do what? Come home? What makes you think I _wanted_ her to come back, Albus? I never want to lay eyes on her again!"

"Ah. I see. And have you told her this?"

Snape glared at him.

"Yes. This morning. But I don't think – I'm not – I must make a greater effort to convince her of my sincerity in the matter."

To Snape's chagrin, the Headmaster chuckled to himself.

"And so, now she is back, you intend to drive her away?"

"Yes. I have no choice."

"Oh, there are always choices, Severus. But I imagine this time you are ensuring that it will be _her_ choice that dictates your future, aren't you?"

Snape fumed as he made his way back to the dungeons. He barely even noticed the small groups of students scatter before him as he trod the staircases and the corridors impatiently. The Headmaster had shown no remorse whatsoever about his treatment. There had been no words of apology, no regret at the deliberate withholding of information vital to Snape's wellbeing. It was as if Dumbledore cared nothing for his finer feelings. Indeed, he had even appeared quite gleeful when he had bade Snape goodbye, brushing down his robes of the greasy crumbs of buttered crumpet and commenting on how he was greatly looking forward to dinner that evening.

Snape was not looking forward to it at all. He spent the remaining hours alone in his room, determined to strengthen his resolve and conceal his emotions. He had a fearsome reputation to uphold and recent events had compromised his position grievously. That would change, now that Ella was back. She would not be able to capitalise on any chink in his armour, if there was none there. 

He took a great deal of care in his preparation for dinner that night. Every item of clothing, every row of buttons, was another layer of protection. He had spent too many weeks taking his clothing for granted without pausing to consider what it could represent. From now on, nobody, least of all Ella, would be left in any doubt. He smiled sardonically to himself as he adjusted his collar, allowing just an inch of the white shirt to show under his chin. He was impregnable. Immovable. Determined. Wrathful. He would drive her to her knees until she begged him to forgive her, and he would enjoy their mutual suffering.

****************

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Thanks to everyone reading. I hope you are enjoying it.

Please review.


	20. Capitulation

**Chapter 20**

**Capitulation**

An hour later, Caius and Tonks had waved their noisy goodbyes from the Hogwarts Express and Severus had breathed a sigh of relief, his pleasure at their departure so palpable that he followed his wife in and out of various shops with what was, for him, exemplary patience. Indeed, Ella had heard him mutter curses under his breath only four times since they had entered Gladrags, their last stop. She grinned to herself as he picked up her packages from the counter, his scowl making the shop assistant blanch and offer her a sympathetic look before scuttling into the back room. A timely, intimate luncheon in a quiet teashop would, she hoped, improve his mood. 

Business could be slim in Hogsmeade during school holidays, and so it proved when they arrived at Jolyon Dearborne's Magical Munchtime, a small, exclusive café just off the main street. As she had expected, only one other table was occupied and at their request the effusive Mister Dearborn showed them to a secluded table at the back of the café, where they would be free to talk undisturbed.

"That man is _just_ as annoying as his brainless cousin!" growled Severus once they had placed their order.

"Oh, he isn't so bad," said Ella calmly. "At least he has the good sense to leave us alone. Must have something to do with the way you glared at him!"

"Hmph. Move your chair closer, I don't want anyone to overhear us."

"Oh, and I thought you were asking because you couldn't get close enough to me!" she said mischievously. A smile flickered across his eyes and he took her chin in his hand.

"You know I can _never_ get close enough to you," he murmured hypnotically as he raked a hungry gaze all over her face, before releasing her and continuing in a more acid tone, "but until I'm convinced that that gurning fool has returned to his copy of "Witch Weekly" and won't be bursting out of the kitchen to show us how well his soufflés rise since he discovered 'Lockhart's Light-as-Air Automatic Wand Waver', I think I'd better keep a respectable distance."

"Good old Cousin Gilderoy, he must be good for Mister Dearborn's business."

"This place was always heaving with his nauseatingly eager fans when he was a teacher here," Snape said mordantly. "Luckily for us, he doesn't get out much nowadays!"

"Hmm. Anyway, Persephone looks like she'll sleep for a while. We can eat in peace."

"Voxnonpublica!" Severus muttered and with a flick of his wand an invisible barrier shimmered into view for a few seconds, distorting the deserted tea shop and cocooning them inside. "Now we can _talk_ in private."

                  *********************************************************

He rarely had occasion to speak to Ella in the days that followed. Outward appearances notwithstanding, he was far more grimly cheerful than before because each day that passed brought him comfort, for Ella remained. He saw her three times each day, in the Great Hall. His routine was unchanging, and so was hers. Her gaze challenged him, and he thought he knew what it meant. She would stay, and she would make him relent. He began to wonder how long she would last before making a move, and passed idle moments devising new ways to torment her and test her resolve. 

His only sorrow was that he yearned for her touch, and ached even more for evidence of the life that was burgeoning inside her. He knew that her pregnancy would advance quickly and deeply regretted depriving himself of every moment. However, he was convinced that he had chosen the only course of action his fragile soul could endure, in the long run, and his conviction bolstered his resolve so that he stood firm. 

He spent hours watching their miniatures dance and embrace, weaving around one another, always touching, always loving. It was ironic, really, since he had never danced with her and very possibly never would. Sirius Black had danced with her, of course, although Snape preferred not to dwell on the memory of Valentine's night. When he did, he would imagine Black's facsimile in place of his own and would end the spell angrily, setting the sculpture aside and clenching down on the tight knot of hatred that pulled him in on himself until he thought he would run mad. On other occasions he would hunch over the figures with his nose scant inches from them, examining the folds of Ella's robes as she wove around her lover, staring into their eyes as they gazed at one another, and watching their mouths meet as they kissed. That was sweet torture and the memories it evoked so vivid that he could almost taste her.

One morning Snape reached the top of the stairs into the Entrance Hall to find Ella in the process of crossing it in order to go in to the Great Hall for breakfast. He slowed to a halt when he saw her, his face mask-like, his arms hanging loosely at his sides. He said nothing, simply pinning her with his gaze, knowing that she would have to speak. 

"Good morning, Severus," she said haltingly as she drew level with him. He stood for a few long moments, long enough to see her step falter, and then, enunciating carefully in a low voice, replied

"Good morning…Miss Redemte." He knew that his deliberately exaggerated formality would imply a great distance between them, and that it would ire her. He lifted an eyebrow enquiringly, challenging her to object. Instead, she lowered her gaze and bowed her head, hurrying on into the Great Hall. His eyes narrowed speculatively as he watched her go and he waited for a few minutes before following, sweeping down the centre aisle to take his place. He glanced across at Ella briefly, seeing her discomposure and congratulating himself bitterly on another successful test of her love for him.

Three weeks passed in this way, and still she remained. He missed her desperately and was beginning to wonder how best to engineer some sort of rapprochement that would save him any loss of face, for he was beginning slowly to believe that perhaps the Fates would abandon their ingrained habits and allow him the happiness their capriciousness had so long denied. However, one morning he was reminded most cruelly of exactly why he should never allow himself to hope. 

The owl post brought copies of the Daily Prophet to students and staff alike and although Snape himself rarely read the publication he always welcomed its arrival. The several minutes of hushed concentration that would follow were infinitely preferable to the usual grating hubbub of mindless chatter he generally had to endure. This morning, however, was different. The silence that fell was complete, but after a pause pregnant with anticipation so tangible that it made Snape look up from his cooked breakfast and scowl at the assembly, the noise level slowly began to rise once more, gaining an excitable momentum until it seemed as if every pupil in the school was wide-eyed, chattering, and staring directly at him.

The idiot Black passed his copy across to Snape wordlessly, and Snape snatched it from him with irritation. Opening out the paper, he felt a flush of anger and deep embarrassment begin to creep up his neck as he read the lead article.

_"The Daily Prophet can exclusively reveal that the special relationship Professor Severus Snape, of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, formed with Miss Ella Redemte, ex-Hogwarts student and world traveller, has ended, despite, or perhaps because of, the fact that she is pregnant with his first child. The erstwhile Death Eater has made few friends since beginning his tenure as potions master, and his legendary sour temper has obviously proved too great a challenge for Miss Redemte, who appears unable to stick at anything for very long. However, she has recently returned to Hogwarts from a long holiday in France, courtesy of Beauxbatons Academy, and this reporter awaits further developments with interest."_

The evil, scheming, shameless witch had done it deliberately. If she thought she could force him into a corner by deliberately exposing such intimate details of their private lives in such a base, underhand fashion, then she was very much mistaken. To divulge details of her pregnancy after he had ordered her specifically to keep her condition a secret was insupportable, and he would not forgive such betrayal. He lifted his eyes from the printed page and sent a wave of pure fury directly from them to hers. She was looking at him helplessly, apparently filled with horror, but he was not fooled. Not wishing to remain the subject of such intense scrutiny by so many, he rose from his seat, curled his lips into a sneer and swept out through the door behind his chair.

He set off in the direction of the dungeons, intending to avoid all human contact until it was absolutely necessary, but he soon realised that the Headmaster would, no doubt, feel the need to call an immediate staff meeting to discuss the issue. Such was his wont, under circumstances such as these. He sighed impatiently and retraced his steps until he reached a faded tapestry of a stormy seascape behind which was hidden a secret passageway to the staff room corridor. He would be the first to arrive, and he hoped to have sufficient opportunity to master his temper before he had to confront her. She was pregnant, after all.

Sure enough, Professors Flitwick and Sprout arrived a few minutes after him. They greeted him cautiously and he snarled a curt reply. They took their places in two of the winged arm chairs that surrounded the fire, and were joined soon afterwards by Minerva McGonagall whose lips were pursed even more tightly than usual. He did not want to sit, because that would mean relinquishing his chair for Ella when she arrived and he was too cross to be able to do so with good grace. Instead, Snape stood at the fireplace with his arms folded across his chest, glowering at the staff room door. When Ella entered, he glared at her with ill-disguised fury. She crossed the room hesitantly, letting her robes fall open to reveal a moss green sweater which clung to the unmistakeable swell of her belly. There was no reason for her to cover herself now that their secret was out, and he felt simultaneous flashes of anger and wonder, turning from her so that she could not see the conflict in his eyes. He remembered well the shifting of her stomach as he had pressed his cheek to her and acquainted himself with their child and he yearned to do it again, cursing himself for denying himself the opportunity even though he knew there was nothing else he could do. Ella took her place in his chair and the room's reluctant occupants kept the awkward silence until the Headmaster arrived.

"This is not exactly the outcome for which I had hoped, Severus," Dumbledore said calmly after he had closed the staff room door behind him.

"While I, on the other hand, am _ecstatic_ at this latest turn of events!" scowled Snape, his voice dripping with sarcasm. His desire to take Ella in his arms and embrace his new family despite his anger gnawed at his gut and the only way he could disguise his anguish was to curdle it with bile. "Tell me," he continued, turning on Ella, "what _other_ little revelations can we expect from Rita Skeeter?"

"How should_ I_ know? I've never even met her!" she objected tremulously, shrinking from his piercing glare. He did not believe her, and his gaze never wavered as he asked coldly,

"Are you sure?"

"I think Ella would remember if she had, Severus!" Professor McGonagall said tartly, earning a sharp look in return. "The point is, Albus, what line should we take with the students? And the board of governors?"

"Leave the governors to me," the Headmaster replied calmly. "As heads of houses I expect you to field any questions from your students with tact and discretion,"

"Hah!" Snape expostulated. If any of his Slytherins dared to question him on such a personal matter he would ensure that they scraped cauldrons every night for a month.

" - I appreciate, Severus, that in _many_ ways you will find this difficult, nevertheless I expect your professionalism to win through," Dumbledore continued pointedly. "As for how Ms Skeeter obtained her information - I do not see anything to be gained by pointing the finger of blame at any one individual. I am quite sure her scoop did not come from Ella, it would not be in her best interests to compromise her position here, Severus. She no doubt culled her information from many sources. A few lucky guesses and the right questions asked would give her an accurate enough story."

Snape glared across the room. Once again his opinion was to be dismissed.

"Will that be all, Headmaster?" he asked in a low voice.

"I believe so, for the moment."

With a last bitter glance at Ella, who sat gripping the arms of his chair and staring at the hem of his robes, he swept past her and out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Now that the whole mess was out in the open he had to take stock of this shift in their situation. The entire school knew not only that Ella was pregnant, but that she had obviously returned for that very reason; and the entire school would have been able to gather that they were no longer together. 

_No longer together_. Ah, but he wanted her back. He had tried not to stare too much across the Great Hall, but seeing her in the staff room, her gait noticeably affected now by the magnitude of her condition, changed everything. He strode down the corridor, hearing the staff room door open behind him and then swing shut.

"Severus!"

He stopped, his billowing robes deflating around him. It was Ella, once again unable to let him walk away from her. 

"Severus! Dumbledore was right, I had nothing to do with the article, I swear! Talk to me, _please_?" she implored.

His fists clenched at his sides. He could not bear to talk to her now. She would confuse him, disarm him, emasculate him, love him until he submitted to her. He would never allow that to happen again. If he ever allowed her back into his life it would be on his terms. He strode on, quickening his pace, until he reached a side corridor suitable for his escape. 

Black was half way through Snape's third year Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw potions class by the time he had returned to the dungeons, so Snape walked straight past the closed classroom door and accessed his office by means of the connecting door from his bedroom. He intended to lose himself in the latest issue of 'Ars Alchemica' in which there was a fascinating article about the use of small doses of asphodel to quell gestational nausea. Perhaps not the best subject matter when he was trying to shut Ella out of his mind, but he reassured himself that he would be reading it for its academic content to assimilate the knowledge therein, and not out of any personal interest. 

However, all he could do as he read it was wonder how he had missed all of the symptoms of her early pregnancy; the morning sickness, the irritability, the frequent visits to the lavatory, and so on. He had been so self absorbed, so convinced that the deterioration in their relationship had been due to his past misdeeds, that he had missed all the signs.  He should have looked outside his own guilt and noticed her suffering. He should have prevented all the heartache they had both suffered and he should be with her now.

Exasperated, he flung the periodical across the room. She was doing it again, manipulating his thoughts, controlling him and bending him to her will. He would not be swayed so easily. She was carrying his child; it did not mean she owned him body and soul. It did not mean that at all.

His lessons were conducted in silence that day. He began each of the remaining classes with a sour warning that he would brook no idle chatter, and the menace in his demeanour as he prowled amongst the bubbling cauldrons stifled any possible speculation by his students. If he could have silenced their chattering tongues outside the classroom as well than he might have been less infuriated, but as it was by the time he had reached the Great Hall that evening the number of whispered conversations he had disturbed while walking the corridors were too numerous to be counted on two hands and his palms hurt from the constant clenching of his fists.

He had missed luncheon and knew that to be absent from dinner too would cause even more gossip, so he braved the wide eyes and the slack-jawed gapes and took up his usual position at the staff table. He knew that as soon as the first course appeared on the long refectory tables all attention would shrink to a small circle mere inches away from each inquisitive nose in the room, and there it would stay, distracted, for the duration of the meal. He would be free to enjoy his dinner, as far as he was able under the circumstances.

Halfway through the meal the double doors swung open and Ella made her entrance. He had noted that she had not taken her place and had felt a twisted satisfaction at her absence. He had thought that perhaps she had been sufficiently cowed by his demeanour in the staff room that morning as to prefer not to face him. He had underestimated her resolve, yet again, for now there she stood, a vision in grey gossamer silk and chiffon, a faerie wraith come once more to haunt him in wakefulness just as she did his dreams. All was suddenly silent as she began her slow procession between the long tables and the sound of falling cutlery might just as well have been the clanging of jaws dropping to the table tops as she passed.

She was lovely. Her dress skimmed her body as she walked, clinging to her lush fecundity and trailing out behind her as if caressed by a gentle breeze. Her hair fell to her waist, all the colours of autumn represented in one glorious affirmation of her ripeness, and he remembered how it felt to bury his face in it across their pillow and how its silken strands would brush across his thighs when she loved him. Her face glowed and her eyes never left his own, sure and steady as she grew nearer. He would lose himself in those eyes, he knew it very well, and he could not afford to let his defences crumble in so public an arena. 

Indeed, he was furious with her. She should know better than to flaunt their relationship in front of the whole school as if it were merely some salacious tidbit for the entertainment of the ignorant masses. Hardening his resolve, he returned her gaze with a thunderous glare, clutching his knife and fork so tightly in his hands that his knuckles were white. She reached the staff table at last and passed round behind it. He stared ahead resolutely, only turning slowly to face her when he felt her hand on his shoulder. Her touch sent shock waves through him and when he met her gaze once more it was only to convey to her his wrath and disapproval in such a way as to be unmistakeable to her.

"Severus," she said quietly, and in so gentle a tone that he felt white hot rage at her deviousness.

"What do you think you're doing, flaunting yourself like this?" he hissed. 

"We need to talk. Right now. You know where to find me."

Before he could reply, she turned and made for the door behind his chair that led to the dungeons. So that was her game. He was supposed to follow her, like an obedient lap dog seeking its mistress's favour. He scowled at the sea of faces turned upwards to his. Almost without exception, they were amazed and awaiting his reaction. He was damned if he would give it to them, so he simply placed his knife and fork neatly on his plate and plucked the napkin from his knee, wiping his mouth and throwing it on to the table. 

"Go after her, Severus!" Lupin murmured.

"Shut up, Lupin!" 

"Go to her! She came back for you, you know she'll make you happy, man!"

Snape gave him a look of the utmost contempt, but then scraped back his chair and swept out of the Hall through the same door that Ella had taken minutes before. He would like to see how she justified making such a public spectacle of them both, for she could not blame this particular turn of events on Rita Skeeter.

She was waiting for him in his classroom, sitting sideways on a chair beside one of the desks. She stood up as he burst in and he noticed the deliberate care she had to take as she rose to her feet, even bracing herself with one hand on the desk. His heart lurched as he thought of the baby inside her but he allowed the strength of his temper to subdue any sentimentality, barking at her,

"In here!" and unlocking the door to his office. He strode inside, leaving her to follow in his wake, and he locked and warded the door behind them with an impatient wave of his wand, carrying straight on into his bedroom before he realised what he had done. It was too late to backtrack and return into the more neutral territory of the office, she would surely notice his discomposure and profit from it, so instead he decided that the only course of action available to him was to brave it out. 

"Well? Wasn't this morning enough for you?" he began icily, folding his robes around himself in an unconsciously protective gesture. "Can you even _begin_ to imagine the sort of day I've had? The whispering in class, the incredulous laughter in the corridors?"

"I don't need to imagine it, Severus, I've had it all day too!" she said quietly.

"And you decided to make it even worse! Do you realise the _damage_ you have just done to my standing here? To my reputation, my position at this school?"

"The damage was done this morning, and not by me. Do _you_ realise the damage you're doing to our _lives_?"

"The damage _I'm_ doing? How can I _possibly_ be damaging something that's already _broken beyond_ _repair_?" he spat, knowing how hurtful his words were and revelling in them.

"Don't _say_ that when you so obviously don't mean it! Stop playing games with me, it isn't _you_!"

She advanced towards him and it was all that he could do to stand his ground, although he did not even know in which direction he would have run, had he been able; away from her arms or straight into them. Standing inches away from him and gazing deep into his eyes she said,

"I _miss_ you. I can't _stand_ it, Severus. I can't _bear_ to be _without_ you."

Hurt flashed across his face but his scowl held.

"You bore it well enough for these last few months!"

"I missed you every day- "

"Hah!"

"I _never _stopped loving you!"

"You went _too far_, and now it's over." 

"It was a chemical imbalance, Severus! Surely you can understand the concept? We need you! I need you, and the baby needs you!"

"I'm sure I'll be no great loss to the baby!" he sneered caustically.

"Oh, for God's sake, Severus!" she screamed at him, losing her temper at last. "Do you have to be so intractable? Stop punishing me for something that wasn't even my fault! I _miss_ you! _I miss you_! I MISS YOU!"

She beat her fists against his chest and began to sob uncontrollably. His face contorted with anguish and he grabbed her wrists and held them still, his lips drawn in a tight line, a deep frown between his eyes. She let herself slump against him, resting her head on his chest and moaning in despair. Her familiar scent made his nostrils flare and he had to resist the urge to bury his face in her hair and crush her to him. Tamping down the fire of his love for her with cold memories of how she had betrayed him, he released her wrists after a while and let his hands drop to his sides. 

"Don't think I don't know what you're trying to do, Severus," she continued in a low voice, struggling to regain a modicum of composure. "You think that if you succeed in driving me away, you'll prove to yourself that you were right to shut me out. But you're _not_! And all the time, you're hoping I'll stay and fight, and I _will_, love, as long as it takes! Even if I have to steal in here in the dead of night and lay your newborn child next to you while you sleep so that you wake up to its cries! _I'll be here_."

She had straightened up as she spoke and now she held his gaze unwaveringly. She had finally given him the emotional reaction he had craved for weeks, the immutable proof that she still loved him despite his best endeavours to drive her away. And she understood him, utterly.

She reached up to touch his cheek with her hand and he closed his eyes, his frown deepening, and she stroked the edge of his mouth with her thumb. He wanted to lean in to her touch but he could not move, could barely even breathe, and he did not know what to do. He was atop a waterfall once again, burning with sorrow and too hurt to take the dive into the cool green waters of her love.

There was a jarring, startling knocking and time ground into gear once more. His eyes snapped open and he crossed the room swiftly to the safety of his office half relieved to be able to disengage himself, closing the door behind him. Opening the door through into the classroom he saw the fearful face of one of the third year Hufflepuffs.

"What do you want?"

"Please, Professor Snape, sir, it's eight o'clock and I've come to do my detention, sir!"

"Detention is cancelled. No, I mean – go to see Professor Sprout, tell her I've sent you to help out with the mandrakes. Well, go _on_ then, _get out_!"

He slammed the door on the terrified student and locked it again. Turning around, he took stock of his surroundings, taking long moments to cast his gaze over the serried ranks of bell jars, vials and bottles, the piles of books, the dragon hide gloves resting next to the variously sized cauldrons, the desk with its rolls of parchment, its quills and ink. For years his life had been encapsulated in this one small room, a private realm all his own in which he was an impregnable fortress that repelled any attempted invasion. Now his room had telescoped in length, its sudden expanse a chasm and the connecting door at its opposite end miles away. 

There was a huge divide between the life he had and the life he now knew was his for the taking and as he began to cross it he was more apprehensive than he had ever been. The room could be measured in no more than ten paces from door to door, but there might as well have been a hundred, for he felt as though he was wading through the thick soup of a shifting bog, the safe misery of his past weighing him down and holding him back. He reached the door an eternity later and stood for a moment to take a deep breath before opening it on his future.

His eyes were drawn to her at once, her body silhouetted in the window and her hair burnished red in the evening sunlight. He closed the door behind him and leaned against it, shrouded in shadow and watching her.

After a few moments pregnant with possibilities she said,

"Everything has to be black and white with you, Severus, and it isn't. There are so many shades of grey. Otherwise, how do you think I could have forgiven you for my parents and my sister? But I did, didn't I? I _do_! And I know I made a mistake, but I've explained, you should be able to understand why!" 

She sounded so tired, he thought. So weary of it all. He was weary of it, too, and he wanted nothing more than to tell her so. Perhaps he had made them both suffer enough. She continued, 

"So why can't you stop messing about like this and just _love_ me? Why do you have to be so _absolute_ about everything?" 

Enough.

"Because – because that's the way I love you, Ella. _Ab_solutely. Utterly. Without any qualification," he said quietly.

He watched as she got to her feet and took a few hesitant steps towards him. He was mesmerised by her, unable to move to join her even though he had just offered her his soul. At last she was before him, her hand resting on his chest, and she let out a sigh that was almost a sob as his arms slipped around her waist. She trembled as she circled his neck with her arms and he allowed her to pull his head down to hers, running her fingers through his hair and sending tiny currents of electricity through him.

It was she who kissed him, and not the other way around, not at first. It was only the slightest brush of her lips against his but it moved him more than any other they had ever shared. She repeated the action, lingering a fraction longer, and then again, trapping the side of his bottom lip between hers and tugging at it so gently as she retreated. Each new kiss was a little longer and deeper than the one before, and he could not stop himself from moaning and shuddering with emotion. 

She leaned into him and the kisses flowed into one another until they were one endless, tender, loving kiss, which deepened as he crushed her to him. The tips of their tongues touched at last, and he felt a surge of electricity charge through them both as she tightened her grip on his hair. He felt her tongue slide against his as it began its yearning exploration of her mouth, and then he was drawing it into himself, sucking it, laving it with his own, feeling the roundness of her belly pressing into him as he tried to wrap himself all around her, demanding and desperate to be closer to her, sensing her crumple against him, holding her to him. 

He did not know how long they stood there in that glorious embrace, but after a while her stomach began to shift against that part of him that was a joyful manifestation of his happiness, and his breathing became ragged with an excitement he did not know whether he could control. Then all at once he realised that it was not Ella squirming against him, but his baby, and he began to smile against her lips and then laugh delightedly, stroking her hair and touching her face and planting gentle kisses all over it. He was embracing both her and his child, his family, his heart's desire.

"Severus," she gasped as he kissed her breath away, "I need to know – is this what you want?"

Ah, how could she doubt it?

"_Absolutely_…" he whispered, over and over.****

****

Much later, when they had sat close together unable to believe that their reconciliation was real, when at last sufficient words had been spoken to reassure one another of their sincerity, he took her to bed. As he looked down at her, standing before him just inches away, her belly distended with their child, he could barely speak.

"You've never looked so beautiful," he said brokenly, and Ella cried then, moving closer to him and winding her arms around his waist. He could scarcely bear the bliss of her satin skin against his, the warmth and the softness and the willingness of her, so he lay her down on the bed, climbing in beside her and propping himself up on one elbow, his body moulding itself into the newness of her curves. He leant over to kiss her and exulted in her soft sigh as his hand reached down to her full breasts. She tangled her fingers in his hair and held his head close to hers, planting kisses over his mouth and his jaw which he returned half in a trance, her taste and her scent, jasmine and musky arousal and Ella, more intoxicating than anything he could ever brew. 

He closed his eyes then, nuzzling her cheek with his nose and lips, breathing her name as he touched her. Half reluctantly his hand left the luscious ripeness of her breasts with their hard pebbled peaks, to travel down over her swollen stomach, stroking these new curves, mapping and learning the wondrous convexity of her, worshipping her, eventually travelling lower still until the smoothness gave way to furze, and sweet fragrant dampness beyond. She began to wriggle and arch against him now, one impatient hand stroking up and down his back and then, tiring of that, pushing him over on top of her. He did not need to be invited twice, and he moved over her then, on all fours between her parted legs, gazing down questioningly into eyes that were almost black, and stormy with desire too long denied. He was achingly hard, and when her hand grasped his length firmly he moaned and felt a tightening in his abdomen and a hot wetness leak from his swollen tip. He took one of her nipples in his mouth and let out a muffled cry as she arched her hips to meet him, letting him nudge at the entrance of her wet folds.

"It's been _so long_…" she breathed as he suckled, flicking his tongue over the hard nub until he felt her begin to tremble beneath him. He dragged his mouth up along her collarbone and her neck until he reached the prize of her lips once more, and as they kissed he slid just his head into her making her cry out into his mouth,

"Ah!" and almost making him come. He was very slow and gentle, his body shaking as he lowered it on to hers. He wanted her so much, months of pent up need and misery were about to be expunged in the tight, wet, blissful heat of her, but he did not want to abandon himself completely to the sensation lest he hurt her.

"Is it okay?" he murmured, his lips brushing against hers as he spoke, licking her lips with his tongue.

"Yes! Yes!" she panted, tangling her fingers in his long black hair again as if she was totally unaware of what that gesture always did to him. At last he let himself go and slid his full length inside her, crying out at the sudden sensation of completeness, of rightness, of pure sweet bliss. 

"Oh, Severus! Hold me!" she cried, and he slid his arms underneath her, taking his weight on his elbows and clasping her to him, connected, marvelling in the sensation of being as one once again. She was too big now to wrap her legs around him, but she gripped his hips between her knees and squeezed hard, encouraging each of his thrusts. He buried his face in her hair and breathed deeply of her, kissing her long chestnut locks and drawing them into his mouth, wanting to absorb everything about her into himself and never release her. He began very slowly to rock his hips, withdrawing from her a little way at first and building up to longer, surer strokes.

"I've missed you!" he groaned into her ear and was answered by her hands clenching convulsively into his shoulders, urging him on. 

Her growing stomach made it difficult for him to roll his hips against hers firmly enough to bring her to climax that way, although judging by the intensity of her cries and whimpers it would not take her long, so instead he moved up a little, withdrawing from her almost completely before sliding in and out, his shaft sliding rhythmically over her engorged centre. Her cries intensified and she began to call out his name, and he gazed down into the depths of her eyes and saw into her soul, holding her eyes open by sheer strength of will so that he could see her passion and her bliss and her love for him. She writhed and bucked under him and he was overwhelmed by her, feeling her power as her internal muscles clamped around his aching shaft, the tight burning in the pit of his stomach growing and spreading. Then came the exquisite tightening in his balls, and then it began, the sudden inexorable rush of heat that he could no longer hold back, and he threw back his head and called out her name back at her, holding himself inside her as far as he possibly could and then pumping into her over and over while she massaged him until he was spent.  

They held one another so tightly, as they drifted slowly back down to earth, that he fancied that their shared passion had melded them together and the notion delighted him; however, he knew that he could not lie on top of his child for too long and so he shifted to one side, sliding from her with a sigh. She snuggled into his arms and buried her face in his chest, and he lay half on his back and stared up at the vaulted ceiling, seeing only her limbs in its columns, her curves in its arches. He caressed his baby with one hand, his love's back with the other, and thanked the Fates for allowing him at last the opportunity to love them both.

                                                                      ***

As the days passed he took ever more delight in her. He felt she had no secrets from him now, save for the one she might or might not share with Sirius Black, and that one he tried as far as possible to put out of his mind. Most of the time there was in any case little room for it, since he was far too occupied with loving her, watching her swell and bloom, and relishing his new role as expectant father and protector. He did feel inordinately protective of her, so much so that he convinced himself effortlessly that there were aspects of his past that she would simply never need to hear, for what good would it do? His conscience prickled at times but on balance it was far better that she was kept in ignorance. She knew he had poisoned her parents, and still she had come back to him. There was no reason to enlighten her with unnecessary detail which would only upset her and therefore their child. 

There was certainly little to be gained from sharing with her the horrific details of Voldemort's many depravities against his person. He did not wish to remember them himself, and so he saw no reason to inflict them on Ella. The fact that he still had secrets from her did not worry him unduly. She knew where his loyalties lay, and she did not question him. For now, that was all the justification he required.

Their lovemaking became more loving than ever before, if that were possible. She was as insatiable as he, and they stole moments of intimacy wherever and whenever they could, as well as spending as much time as was humanly possible in the welcoming haven of their bed. 

The NEWTS and OWLS had been set weeks earlier, but he found those days that were taken up with invigilating the exams long and tedious, and he would fret over where Ella was, and what she was doing. He tried not to let his insecurities show, but the memory of her absence was still too fresh in his mind for him not to wonder sometimes whether he walked in a waking dream, and he waited anxiously for the dreaded stumble back into a world without her. She, of course, wore the emerald and had no such concerns, always knowing when he would return, always waiting with open arms and a welcoming smile. He knew that she never took the stone from her neck, ever, and this pleased and comforted him, and he began to wonder when would be the most propitious time to entrust its smaller twin to her safekeeping. He was eager to marry her. They had already agreed that she should move into his rooms officially, and Albus had agreed his plans to extend his living quarters into the adjacent suite of rooms, which had stood empty for many years. Now all he had to do was ask her.

At last the exams were all over and the school breathed a collective sigh of relief. Snape had managed to mark most of his students' theory papers while invigilating or overseeing the practical examinations that followed, and so after the last exam had been completed only that one required his attention. By the time the last Potions NEWT was over, all scrolls had been marked and locked away, and all potions had been tested and either summarily thrown down the sink or labelled and stored away for future use. Impatiently, Snape ushered the last of the students out of his classroom, trying to ignore the fact that one of the Gryffindor girls was blinking back tears, and closed the door behind them. He leaned against it in relief and rolled his eyes as he heard subdued voices rise in both pitch and excitement as they compared notes and fled the dungeons, happily beginning to realise that their examinations were now over. 

With a heartfelt sigh, Snape surveyed the empty classroom before him. Serried rows of desks, each with its own small cauldron, cleaned out but left for his inspection. A large collection of beakers and sealed vials on the workbench, all labelled and awaiting his perusal. Even from across the room he could already tell by their varying colours which would pass and which would fail. He raised an eyebrow in jaundiced surprise. The results this year might prove to be of an unusually high standard. There was little chance that next year's crop would reach the same level, he thought, grimacing as he thought of each prospective candidate's particular deficiencies. However, he did not need to worry about cramming vital knowledge into unreceptive numbskulls for over eight weeks, and by the time there were students in his charge once more, he would be a father and, if the Fates were willing, a husband too. He allowed himself a small, quick smile as he hastened towards the door to his office and the bedroom beyond. 

Ella was waiting for him and rose awkwardly to her feet as he entered.

"So, it's all over for another year, then?" she smiled as they embraced.

"Thankfully," he replied, burying his face in her hair and breathing deeply of her. 

"However will you fill your time over the summer?" she mocked.

His hands dropped to her enticingly ample buttocks and he squeezed them firmly, pulling her against him so that she could feel his reaction to the suggestiveness in her tone.

"I'm sure I'll think of something to keep myself entertained!"

That evening after dinner he had closeted himself away in his office to grade the last batch of potions and mark the papers. Now, everything was done and he lay in bed with a sleeping Ella sated in his arms, and as he closed his eyes and searched for sleep, he sighed. Severus Snape was a happy man.


	21. Adoration

**Chapter 21**

**Adoration**

****

"Why are you looking at me like that, Ella?" Snape asked quizzically, cocking his head to one side as he noticed the glassy expression in her eyes. She was leaning forward with one elbow on the table, resting her chin in her hand as she gazed at him.

"Hmm? Oh, I was just reminiscing along with you…" she smiled suggestively.

"Indeed? Well then, if you were keeping up with what I was saying then you will have noticed that my recollections of some of our more _intimate_ moments were quite some time ago!" he said sharply. "Have you been listening to me _at all_ for the last ten minutes?" 

"Yes, of course I have! I heard every word! It's just that – "

" – Just that you would like me to take you home now and  - "

"_Yes!_"

"Punish you for your inattention?" he mocked. "Never agree to anything without first knowing all the facts, Ella! You are far too headstrong and foolhardy," he admonished, pushing his empty coffee cup and saucer towards the centre of the table and wiping the corners of his mouth with his napkin.

"Am I indeed?" Ella laughed, scraping back her chair and getting to her feet. "I think I have a pretty good idea what form my 'punishment' will take, Severus!"

He sat back in his chair and clasped his hands in his lap, appraising her coolly.

"I think you're taking too much for granted."

"Then take me home and we'll put it to the test!"

He narrowed his eyes and rose to his feet, standing so close to her that she had to tilt back her head in order to look into his eyes.

"Very well. If you believe that I will wait so long," he murmured, his eyes travelling over her face hungrily. He noticed her shiver and he dropped his voice further as he growled, "I might prefer to find a secluded alleyway, or better still, a welcoming patch of springy grass behind a hawthorn hedge."

Ella's eyes grew dark but before she had the chance to respond the door to the café's kitchens burst open and Severus took a step back from her as Mister Dearborne fussed his way across to their table.

"Leaving so soon? Can I interest you in a frothy cappuccino?"

"No, thank you," Severus replied stiffly.

"A coconut macaroon?" 

"No, I think not."

Mister Dearborn was nothing if not tenacious and he practically grabbed Severus' cloak in his attempts to press them to change their minds. Ella noticed that all his rather fawning attention was directed towards her husband, and with a wry smirk wondered whether or not she had been unwittingly covered by an invisibility cloak. Her husband drew himself up to his fullest and most affronted height as Lockhart's cousin continued,

"A cheese soufflé! I have the most _wonderful_ contraption in my kitchen. You look like the sort of man who would appreciate a perfectly risen savoury treat!"

Severus' limited patience snapped.

"Get out of my way!" he snarled, striding from the small café in a flurry of billowing irritation. Ella sucked in her lips over her teeth and bit down gently to try and contain the laughter that threatened to bubble from her. She hurriedly withdrew an assortment of coins from her pocket and left them on the table before grabbing the handles of Persephone's pushchair and hastening after her husband before Jolyon Dearborne tried to force her into buying half a dozen of his fairy cakes.

She caught up with him halfway down Hogsmeade's main street. He was standing with his shoulders hunched and his arms folded, staring into the shop window of the apothecary's. At her approach he turned his head and glared at her for a moment before resuming his examination of the dried herbs hanging from hooks and the multicoloured rows of bottles arranged underneath them.

"There's no need to look at _me_ that way, it's hardly _my_ fault I'm not the only one to find you irresistible!" she teased gently, earning a glowering snarl this time.

"I'm looking for something I can mix together and slip inside one of the wretched man's soufflés so that I can force feed it to him on my way home!"

Ella composed herself, deciding that now was not the time for mirth or merriment.

"No, love," she said huskily, winding her arm around his waist. "Let's not waste any time. Take me home, and tell me about when you asked me to marry you."

His eyes glittered as he looked down at her, and she licked her lower lip.

"And then make love to me," she whispered.

                **********************************************************

And so, at last, the final weekend before the end of term arrived and with it the culmination of a year's worth of Quidditch matches; the House Cup. Ella had insisted that she wanted to go despite the fact that her mobility had been somewhat impaired by the strains imposed on her body by late pregnancy, and so since the final was due to start at ten o'clock they set off together for the Quidditch pitch immediately after breakfast.

Snape had to slow his pace considerably to match hers otherwise she would have been left miles behind. 

"What on _earth_ am I going to be like in a few weeks' time?" she complained.

"You probably won't be able to walk at all," he commented dryly, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly as she glared at him. "I should have brought my broom, you could have flown to the staff stand in style!"

"Hah! Not a chance! You won't see _me_ on a broom again in a hurry!"

"Why ever not? What's wrong with brooms? Is this some strange quirk of character that's only revealing itself to me by degrees? Do you object to _all_ magical modes of transportation on principle, is that it? Or do you have good reason?" he wondered. Not for the first time he smiled inwardly at her discomfort and wondered how on earth she ever managed to get anywhere. She hated Apparation, disliked Floo and now it seemed her idiosyncrasy encompassed the more traditional Wizarding transportation as well.

"I _always_ have good reason!" she objected. "I just...well, the last time I was on a broom it nearly tipped me into a dormant volcano!"

"_What_?" He stopped in his tracks to stare at her incredulously, his mood changing from somewhat superior humour to jealous insecurity. He was reminded suddenly of the years that had elapsed since her parents' deaths, years when he had been ignorant of her existence and she of his, years she had lived and perhaps even loved in a world far different to his own.

"Oh, long story, never mind. It was an old broom, my charm went wrong, that's all."

Snape shook his head in disbelief. He knew that he would have to accept that there were parts of her past about which he would always be ignorant. Trying to ignore the unpleasant twisting sensation in his gut that always discomfited him when she alluded to a part of her life that would always be curtained from him, he told himself that all that really mattered now was her present, and her future.

"Morning, you two!"

It was Black, bounding up behind them with all the enthusiasm of a slobbering puppy. What wonderful timing the man had. There was one particular aspect of Ella's past that did still matter to him, and he could not deny it.

"Hello, Sirius!" Ella smiled. Snape inclined his head stiffly but decided to make a supreme effort to be polite. As Ella's partner and the father of her child he felt that he ought to show that he could afford a little magnanimity, even if his tone was still unavoidably sarcastic and accusatory.

"We missed you at breakfast, Black, where were you?"

"Oh, I had a heavy night last night. Ended up taking a room at the Three Broomsticks rather than crawl all the way back here," Black replied happily, obviously too thick both of skin and skull to take offence.

"Do we know the lady?" Snape asked archly.

"I don't know what you mean, Snape!"

"Neither do I, Severus!" Ella admonished, but he simply raised his eyebrows and slipped his arm around her shoulders proprietarily. She was his, and Black could search for solace from that fact wherever he would.

Lupin joined them shortly afterwards and together the four of them ascended the narrow wooden stairs up to the teachers' stand. Snape was concerned for Ella's safety as she climbed the narrow wooden treads, climbing close behind her so that her rear brushed against his chest. He would catch her if she stumbled, and he felt a swell of love for her, and pride in his role as her protector. By the time they had reached the seats at the top she was puffing and panting, complaining of a stitch in her side. He pulled her to him and she leaned against him most gratifyingly, groaning as he rubbed the stitch from her side.

"I _knew_ this would happen..." he murmured smugly into her hair.

"And you're always right, I suppose."

"I'm glad we understand each other..."

"Arrogance personified, aren't you?" she grumbled, and then straightened as Sirius bloody Black, showing a level of preparedness as irritating as that of a boy scout, said buoyantly,

"Here, Ella, I brought a drink this time!" handing her a flask of ice-cold pumpkin juice. Snape's smirk died on his face as she accepted it gratefully, taking a deep draught of it, and he glared at the back of Black's head as he took his seat, cursing himself for not having the foresight to bring along a flask of his own and itching to hex Black for having the temerity to remind him of whatever it was that had happened between the two of them in France.

Snape settled Ella into her seat and then, with a last scowl at an unheeding Black, took his own place beside her. He reached for her hand and placed it in his lap, caressing it possessively with both of his. She leaned into him contentedly and his eyes narrowed in concentration as the two teams took to the air. He remembered the last Quidditch match they had watched together and his mood began to lift considerably. 

The match was fast, furious and enthralling. The teams were very closely matched, and the score after an hour of play was one hundred and twenty points each. To his concern, however, Ella began to fidget and wriggle uncomfortably in her seat, arching her back.

"Are you alright?" he asked solicitously.

"Backache," she replied, grimacing.

"Here, let me help." 

He released her hand and shifted in his seat so that he could slip his arm behind her. Using the flat and the heel of his hand, he rubbed the small of her back firmly, feeling her relax almost instantly. She looked up at him, smiling blissfully,

"That feels wonderful, Severus!"

Of course it did. He had spent hours mapping her body with his hands, learning her every curve and her every sigh, knowing exactly what pleased her and what sent her into ecstasy. It followed, therefore, that anything less than her instant relief should disappoint him greatly. He smiled down at her briefly, then glanced back at the pitch and said,

"Look, there's the Snitch!" 

"About time, too!" she said, and then started to moan with pleasure as his fingers continued to ease her backache. "Mmm, Severus...ooh, don't stop! _Aah_..."

Her very vocal pleasure was gratifying in the extreme, but it was having an altogether inappropriate effect on his bodily responses and judging by the small cough from the seat in front, Remus Lupin's genetically enhanced hearing had picked up on her reaction too.

"Do you _have_ to groan like that?" he murmured into her ear.

"Aah..."

"Only, it's very much like the sound you make when...well, people will wonder what I'm doing to you..."

Ella was unconcerned.

"Oh, don't be such a killjoy! People can see your other hand, what's the problem?"

"Ella, I'm shocked!" he replied, hiding his amusement and shifting in his seat to try to relieve a little of the pressure in his trousers. He loved this woman, this carefree, infuriatingly heedless, wonderfully arousing woman.

"Just keep on doing it, it feels _so_ good!"

"Alright, as long as you want."

_Forever._

"Well, the next six weeks, for starters!"

"Hmm. How about the next six years?" he teased gently.

_Longer than forever, if he could._

"Mmm, aah, whatever...a bit lower - oh, _yes_, that's it!"

Now was the time. He would do it now. He wanted her to belong to him forever.

"As you wish. How about - er - how about for - for all our lives?"

"Sounds better all the time!" she laughed.

He sighed. She was obviously too intent on what he was doing to fully concentrate on what he was saying and he was not about to raise his voice and risk the werewolf overhearing. He took a deep breath, leaning in to her a little more closely, and decided to spell it out to her.

"All – er – all our married lives?"

His words were lost in a huge roar from the crowd. Ravenclaw had just scored again and the stands were in uproar.

_Bloody great._

"What?" she said, her green eyes sparkling gold in the autumn sunshine, cheeks flushed with excitement and happiness. He was gazing down at her intently, but it was obvious that her attention was still elsewhere and he wanted to take her shoulders and turn her to him to impress on her the importance of what he was about to say for the second time.

"I said - all our _married_ lives?"

He stopped rubbing, and waited. Slowly, she turned to face him, and he could almost feel time stop as he waited for her answer. She had heard him this time, that much was evident from the look in her eyes, but she did not answer. Perhaps she would have preferred a more traditional proposal, preceded by a speech in which he declared his undying love. Perhaps he should have remembered to slip the ring into his pocket before they had set off for breakfast that morning, but he had not known that the words would come so easily to him as he sat in the windswept stand watching her wriggle into his touch as if everything he ever did to her was everything she had ever wanted. Perhaps he was wrong and she would refuse him. Perhaps he ought to break the terrifying silence and speak. He hardly knew what he was saying but he had to say something, because if she intended to turn him down he knew his heart would crack.

"I know it's probably not the most articulate or romantic proposal of marriage you've ever heard, but...will you? Perhaps?"

"Yes! Oh! _Yes_!"

He had been holding his breath and now he exhaled in a shuddering gasp, his eyes locked with hers as they gave one another the answers to all of the questions they no longer needed to ask. He wanted to take her in his arms and crush her to him, but they were both mindful of where they were and resisted the pull, conveying all they felt through eyes overflowing with emotion. The roar of the crowd was reduced to a distant buzzing in Snape's ears and he hardly noticed as everyone around them began to get up and leave the stand. 

"Is there something you two want to tell me?" beamed Lupin from the row in front.

"Later, Lupin," Snape answered faintly, never taking his eyes from Ella. "We'll be along in a little while."

Ella pressed her hand to his cheek, sending shivers through him. He covered it with his own and kissed her palm, no longer caring that they were not alone. Lupin clapped him on the shoulder and began to walk along the row, calling back over his shoulder, 

"Oh, by the way, in case you're interested - Gryffindor won by one hundred and forty points!"

Alone at last, Ella wrapped her arms around his neck.

"Oh well," she said dreamily, "at least there's _one_ happy Ravenclaw here today..."

"And are you happy? Do I _really_ make you happy?" he asked, knowing that he did and yet wondering at it still. She climbed on to his lap then, straddling him to be as close to him as she could, and he held her close and kissed her, closing his eyes as heat rushed from her through him and back again. At last, she pulled back from him a little, her lips still brushing his as she spoke.

"Severus, are _you_ sure?"

"You keep asking me that, love! When have you ever known me to prevaricate?"

"Never..."

"Are _you_ sure? Because, you know, once we're married, that's it - I'll never, _ever_ let you go!"

He could have kissed her for the rest of the day and still have hankered after more. Her taste was an addiction, intoxicating and wild but at the same time the safest, most comforting compulsion he had ever experienced. He wanted to taste more of her, all of her, to draw her into himself and make her a part of him just as he was a part of her, in their child who was crushed between them.

He pulled apart from her at last, feeling his legs benumbed by the weight of her. They were sixty feet in the air with what would, for Ella, be a hazardous descent followed by a long trek back up to the school still ahead of them, and it was neither the time nor the place to give in to his overwhelming need to be subsumed by her.

"We'd better get back," he told her reluctantly.

Ella tightened her grip around his neck and complained,

"Oh, not yet. This is nice..."

"Much as I am enjoying this moment, you are getting rather heavy and besides, it'll probably take you half the afternoon to walk back up to the school."

She snorted indignantly but got to her feet, and he breathed an exaggerated sigh of relief, much to her disgust. When they reached the top of the stairs he insisted she let him precede her. Much as he adored her, he was well aware of her shortcomings and she was not one of the most graceful people he had ever met. Besides, she would need to watch her step descending the steep winding stairs and he feared that she would be unable to see her feet because of the size of her stomach.

"Here, let me go first. That way, if you trip, I'll break your fall."

"Oh, Severus, that's so chivalrous!"          

"I'm just being practical," he said dismissively. "You aren't the most surefooted person I've ever met!"

"Honestly, I trip just once and I'm never allowed to forget it!" she complained. "And anyway, if I _hadn't _tripped over that root and been bitten by that snake, we might not be here together now!"

Hiding a smile he turned to her and held out his arms, shrugging,

"Was I complaining? I was just making an observation, that's all. Now, mind your step!"

Snape made most of what little conversation passed between them on their way back to the school. It was apparent that the gentle upward gradient was challenging for her and when he realised that she was answering him only in monosyllables in order to preserve her breath for the trek he slipped his arm around her waist and helped her along as best he could, lapsing into companionable silence.

By the time they had reached her rooms he could see that Ella was exhausted. Her hair clung damply to her forehead and her chest was covered with a fine sheen of perspiration. Despite the thick white clouds, which had offered frequent respite from the summer sunshine, the day was hot and sultry and the sun had been at its midday zenith for their return to the school. Ella stretched out on her bed with a sigh of relief, and he sat beside her, taking her hand in his. 

"Wait here, and have a rest. I'll be back soon."

"Where are you going?"

"Just back to the dungeons. I won't be long. And then we'll need to tell the Headmaster our news."

She gave him a contented smile that made him want to stretch out beside her, but there was something he needed to do and he could not let himself be distracted.

"I wouldn't be surprised if he already knew," she said happily. "Or if he's known all along!"

He kissed her forehead tenderly, and left her to rest. 

He hastened down to the dungeons, glad that the corridors were empty, and made directly for his bedroom and the enormous oak armoire that stood in one corner. Releasing the wards that concealed a small hidden drawer, which was situated between the two narrow top drawers, he pulled it open to reveal the green velvet drawstring bag in which he still kept the items of jewellery from Folin Gemthewer. He tipped out its contents on to the surface of the armoire and caught his breath. They truly were exquisite, and with trembling fingers he examined each piece in turn before replacing it safely in the bag. All except for the last piece, the engagement ring set with a single emerald encircled with diamonds and held in place by twisting serpents. He returned the bag to the drawer, closing and warding it so that its outline shimmered and bled into the companions above and below it, hiding it from view. Then he took the ring and held it up to the light that streamed in still through the window, murmuring arcane charms wrapped in words of love as he thought of the woman whose finger it would soon grace. He pressed it to his lips and said her name just once, then placed it carefully in his breast pocket. That done, he took winged steps back to Ella's room. She would have a proper proposal of marriage.

He returned to her rooms just in time to see her emerge from her bathroom after taking a shower. He had an immediate physical reaction to the sight of her damp hair tangling down her back, stray tendrils clinging to her cheeks, and the enticing expanse of skin revealed by her loosely tied dressing gown, but once she had greeted him, allowing him to scrape her hair from her shoulder and nuzzle the sweetly fragranced nape of her neck, she disengaged herself with a smile, pushing him towards the chair before turning from him and slipping off her robe. His blood surged joyfully southward as his eyes feasted on her ample curves dipping and swaying before him as she dressed, the sight almost making up for the disappointment of not taking her at once. However, he mused as he watched her shake out a gauzy blue cotton shift, there was nothing done that could not later be undone, in this instance.

"The Headmaster is expecting us later," he announced, watching her intently as she began to brush out her hair. "But first I need to say something - will you put the hairbrush down now, please?"

She did as he asked, turning towards him with a wry expression on her face and settling down at his feet, resting her forearms over his knees to provide a cushion for her chin.

"Ella, I've loved you since - well, not since I first laid eyes on you, but for a very long time."

"Since when, then?" she interrupted.

"What?" he replied, distracted.

"When did you start to love me?"

"It doesn't matter, it was a very - "

"Yes it does, I want to know."

She was putting him off. He had spent hours practising what to say in his head, and with just a few carefully chosen and totally irrelevant questions she had completely put him off his stride. Had she any idea how unused he was to conversations such as these? He sighed, and resigned himself to the diversion from the matter at hand. He was sure he would be able to get the conversation back on track at some point.

"Oh, well, alright, I suppose it was - when you sat at my feet by the fire that night, and rested your head on my knee."

"And here I am again!"

"Er...yes. Indeed." Stating the obvious, he thought dryly.

"And you didn't start to love me until then? Oh..."

"Anyway, the point is..." he continued irritably, "...what do you _mean_, 'didn't start to love you until then'? When did you start loving _me_?"

"Oh, after that first evening in your office, working together. That's when the instant lust became love, I think."

"Oh..." he remembered, frowning as he rose to his feet, helping Ella up too so that she could take her place in his stead. "Ella, _do_ stop getting me sidetracked, this is important!"

"Sorry..." she murmured, sitting down. She was silent, looking up at him questioningly, and he took a deep breath.

"Anyway...I've tried living without you and quite evidently it doesn't work, and I never want to be in such an untenable position again. I want you to stay with me for the rest of my life, and I swear I'll spend all that time endeavouring to make you happy. So, that said," he continued, dropping to his knees, "will you marry me?"

There. He had said it, properly, in true Muggle fashion. She had been brought up in the Muggle world when not in school, and had spent most of her life there since. She would understand the importance of such sentiment, and she would surely appreciate the effort he was making for her. And above all that, although he meant every single word of it, he found the words affecting him in a completely unexpected way. Perhaps it was the symbolism of falling to his knees in front of her, but he was, yet again, completely in her thrall and even though she had given him her answer in the Quidditch stands, he still held his breath now just in case she had changed her mind.

She did not speak, so he took her silence for assent and reached into his robes for the green velveteen box he had conjured on his way from the dungeons. He had decided it would be more fitting to present it to her in traditional fashion. He pressed the box into her trembling hands and opened it, taking out the ring and placing it carefully onto the third finger of her left hand. A warm glow suffused the stone, and she gasped as she looked at it, her hand still enfolded in his.

"You've enchanted this!" she said faintly.

"I breathed my love into it," he admitted, dropping her hand then to take her face in his hands and kiss her. The contact made him tingle, and his head swam with feeling. She would, indeed, be his.

"Oh, Severus! Will the ring always make me feel like this?" she asked when they broke apart.

"I hope so," he smiled, "but don't worry, I dare say you'll get used to it! I assume your answer is still yes?" he added as a suddenly uncertain afterthought.

"Of course! And if you made love to me now? Would I be able to bear it?"

He stroked her cheeks tenderly with his thumbs. Those were the other words he had wanted to hear her say.

"Let's find out, shall we? Divestio!"

With a feral smile he made all of their clothing vanish, to reappear in a neatly folded pile on the other side of the room. She sat before him with her arms around his neck, glowing with love that was all for him, and he took her breast in his hand and watched her reaction as he dragged his thumb across the puckered nipple. She drew in a sharp breath and his face split with glee as she pulled him to her and buried her face in his hair. She was his, had always been his, and would be his for ever more. He would adore and protect her and she would bend to his will at the slightest touch of his hand. 

He ran his long, sensitive fingers along her spine and felt her shiver, and as he moved closer between her opened legs his hard manhood jutted and bobbed against the juncture of her thighs. He felt more potent than ever before, for now it was not just his lover who sat before him but his mate, his life partner, his all. He lowered his hands to her buttocks and cupped them firmly, pulling her forward a little so that he could impale himself inside her needy flesh. He entered her slowly, savouring every exquisite sensation as he was absorbed into her an inch at a time. Ella threw back her head and groaned, trying to hurry him along by thrusting her hips forward, but he held her steady and made her wait for him, her cries and sobs of need music to his ears. 

At last she had taken him all in and he flexed himself inside her, gasping as she returned his intimate caress with an exquisite tensing of her own muscles that massaged his shaft and made him bite down on her shoulder as he tried to hold himself back. He wrapped his arms around her and began to rock his own hips very gently backwards and forwards, pressing his hand into the small of her back to make her loosen her hold around his neck and arch backwards. This enabled him to duck down and capture one of her nipples in his mouth, and he stroked and laved it with his eager tongue, hungry for her. Her moans increased in intensity as he suckled her, and she clutched his head to her chest convulsively, her fingers scrabbling in his hair. 

Her thrusts began to meet his with an urgency that was irresistible to him, and his strokes lengthened and increased until he felt his balls tighten and an insistent throbbing heralded the start of his orgasm. She screamed out his name over and over as her vagina pulsed around his shaft and he branded her as his with the hot seed of his climax. She cried, afterwards, and he held her tightly as her spasms milked the last drops from him. 

"I love you, my wife," he murmured into her hair, and she sobbed of her love in return. 

At length, he slid from her with a sigh of regret, and got to his feet. Leading Ella over to the bed he climbed in beside her and they lay together in the afterglow of their coupling. 

                                                                             ***

Making their way to Albus Dumbledore's office Snape had believed his happiness to be complete. He had even managed a smile when Ella collapsed against him in a fit of giggles as he solemnly intoned the latest ridiculously saccharine password, 

"Love Hearts!"

The Headmaster had been delighted, but had had unwelcome news to impart. Rita Skeeter had witnessed his proposal in the Quidditch stands in her animagus form, despite a ten year ban imposed by the Ministry, and would no doubt ensure that it was headline news. Sure enough, two days later the article had appeared and it had linked Ella with Sirius Black. Ella was appalled and all of Snape's jealousy resurfaced as he read the article over breakfast. He snapped at them both and strode to Dumbledore's office in petulant rage, unable to look either in the eye despite his sure knowledge that he alone had a place in Ella's heart. Some old scars simply ran too deep, he thought, casting sidelong scowls at Sirius Black and remembering every single slight he had ever suffered at his hands. 

However, Fawkes had been purring when the party had entered the Headmaster's office and although Snape rolled his eyes at the obvious attempt to manipulate his guests, Snape could not be angry with Dumbledore for long. He calmed quickly, could almost feel his heart slow and his tension ebb away, and he was able to look on his heavily pregnant fiancée with eyes that were free from all suspicion and held only concern. She was as upset as he, and more resistant to phoenix song, it seemed. 

As he reassured her and calmed her down he could not help remembering their idyllic picnic the day before, a day marred only by the untimely arrival of the know-it-all Head Girl and her pet werewolf. He had lain under dappled sunlight and rested against the mystical strength of the school's most ancient tree outside of the Forbidden Forest, and he had sped from one end of the school grounds to the other and back again with his love pressed close against him, making her share his excitement in spite of herself and revelling in his abandonment. 

He ought to have known that what the Fates gave with one hand they would endeavour to take away with the other. 

When the Headmaster called Miss Granger, Lupin and Mister Potter in to the room and informed them all that Malfoy had absconded from Azkaban, aided and abetted by none other than the Minister of Magic himself, Fudge, Snape's heart, which had been lighter than air, sank like a lead weight into his boots. He grasped the implications immediately, even though Dumbledore implied nothing. He had been a Death Eater and a spy for long enough to know that eventually he would be expected to go after Malfoy and either apprehend him or die trying.

As Draco Malfoy's Head of House it was Snape's duty to escort the boy to the Headmaster's office in order that he could be informed of his father's escape. He was silent and brooding as he descended the slowly spiralling staircase with Ella. He had no intention of sharing his fears about Malfoy senior with her, but he decided that it would be prudent for her to move into his rooms permanently as soon as possible. It was vitally important to him that she should be comfortably established before he had to go away. And if he was completely honest with himself, he needed the security of knowing that she was there, all the time.

"Go to your rooms, and start to pack up all your belongings," he instructed her at the foot of the stairs. "I'll come to you as soon as I can. You're going to move in with me properly. I think it's about time, don't you?"

"I – are you sure? I don't want – "

"Don't argue."

She leaned in to him and they stood holding each other close for a moment, then he lifted her chin and kissed her briefly before striding off in the direction of the Slytherin common room.

As he had suspected, Malfoy junior was holding court in the common room surrounded by his usual coterie. Too pale of complexion to enjoy a surfeit of hot, sunny days, Draco's natural habitat when not searching for the elusive Golden Snitch on his broomstick was the cold green, silver and black elegance of the Slytherin common room. Snape threw open the door with his customary flourish and made his entrance.

The common room had not changed since his own time there. Dark green drapes curtained every window, clear blue-green light illuminated the room darkly, as if it lay a league below the surface of the lake. The fireplaces were black and had been forged of iron in Salazar Slytherin's day, the candelabra and sconces were of silver, the coiled serpents that dominated their design equally ancient.

Chesterfield sofas in racing green were positioned in facing pairs beside fires, windows and tables of ebony, and it was around one of these groupings that the seventh year Slytherins sat now. 

They turned and rose as one body at the sight of their House Master, but Snape ignored them. He had no time for them now, mere days away from graduation. None of this year's crop had been salvageable despite his best and most subtle efforts and he could see glimmers of distrust breaking through the veneer of respect they still wore for him. The children of Death Eaters all, he was certain of it, and more than ready to follow in the accursed footsteps of their parents. Only one had been different, to his amazement, and it had been disguised so very well that Snape had not even realised his potential until his father had been dragged off to Azkaban.

"Malfoy, come with me," he said curtly, glancing at the boy briefly before turning on his heel and striding back out into the corridor without any further ado.

The boy caught him up just as he reached the staircase to the East Corridor.

"Professor Snape, sir?"

"Yes, Malfoy?"

"Where are we going?"

The boy did not sound as cocky as usual, Snape noted. A quick sideways glance showed him a wan, etiolated face with sunken cheeks and dark shadows under the eyes. Eyes which were haunted and scared. Snape sighed. This was not going to be easy news for the boy to hear. 

Since his father's discovery of Snape's double life, and the subsequent abduction and rescue of Ella and Hermione which had culminated in his father's imprisonment, Draco Malfoy had found himself in an invidious position. One which involved lying to his fellow Slytherins, accepting their ersatz sympathy with proud sorrow and making snide comments to his Head of House in order that they would continue to  support and idolise him. Snape let most of the comments pass, removing points in order to send a message of strength to the Death Eater spawn at large more than to keep Malfoy in his place. Malfoy, he knew, needed all the friends he could get, even if he was coming to realise that they were friends he would rather not have. _Keep thy friends close, and thine enemies closer_. Snape could relate to that.  His voice was measured and without inflection as he answered,

"We're going to see Professor Dumbledore." 

"Have I done something wrong, Professor?" the boy asked, dropping his voice as if fearful that the tremor in his voice would be overheard. Snape's mouth tightened into a thin line.

"Not this time, boy," he replied, picking up his pace in order to discourage any more conversation.

They entered Albus Dumbledore's office to find the Headmaster standing beside Fawkes' perch, tickling the phoenix under its chin. Fawkes was purring again, but as Draco Malfoy stepped into the room behind Snape the bird broke off its soothing song and let out a low, keening squawk before shuffling uncertainly on its perch and flapping its wings. Malfoy looked between Snape, Dumbledore and Fawkes nervously before asking, with a bravado Snape knew to be false,

"What's wrong with it?"

Dumbledore frowned slightly and shook his head.

"I believe Fawkes is, ah, unsettled by the resemblance you bear to your father, Draco."

"I'm nothing like my father!" spat the boy vehemently, drawing his arms around himself.

"That remains to be seen, doesn't it?" enquired Snape smoothly, arching a brow. "Although I believe that your _Headmaster_ was referring to your family likeness, Mister Malfoy."

"I'm sorry, Headmaster," mumbled the chastened boy, shuffling uncomfortably and bearing no resemblance now to the waxy Adonis of the bowels of the castle Snape had seen minutes before.

"No matter, boy, no matter," assured Dumbledore, gesturing for the younger Malfoy to take a seat by the fire. He took his place opposite him and Snape stood at his side, with his hands clasped behind his back. "Draco, Professor Snape and I have some news that we need to impart."

"It's about my father, isn't it? Is he dead?"

The boy's voice was without inflection, and Snape glanced at him sharply to try to ascertain his emotions. He thought he had caught a glimpse of hope in the bleakness.

"No, not dead. Your father has been helped to escape from Azkaban prison."

Malfoy's already pinched white face blanched still further.

"Escaped? But – how could he escape? Where is he?"

Sensing Draco's distress through the bluster in his tone, the Headmaster leaned forward in his chair and rested his elbows on his knees, tenting his fingers.

"He was helped by Cornelius Fudge, Draco, and I am afraid that we have no idea of their whereabouts."

Draco raised shaking hands to hide his face, taking a few uneven breaths before composing himself.

"And has Mother been informed?" he asked steadily. Snape had to admire the boy's self control. It was raw and untested, granted, but was more than his father had possessed at a similar age. 

"Aurors were sent this morning to Malfoy Manor. Two are now stationed there, in case your father tries to contact her," Dumbledore replied.

"Mister Malfoy," Snape began, "Are you in a position speculate on your mother's possible reaction to this news?"

Malfoy shuddered almost imperceptibly and shook his head slowly.

"I don't know, sir. I really don't know."

"Hmm."

"Professor Dumbledore? Professor Snape?" he said uncertainly.

"Yes, Draco?" answered the Headmaster.

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"What will happen to me?"

"In what respect, Mister Malfoy?" enquired Snape.

"I mean…when my father was in Azkaban it was all pretty clear, wasn't it? I was to graduate and then go home to take care of Mother, then look after Father's - business interests. But what if I – well, what if I go home and he – he comes back?"

"If he is foolish and arrogant enough to do that then he will be caught," Snape said dismissively.

"But what if he isn't caught?" Draco turned pale eyes dark with fear to meet his Head of House's unwavering gaze. "I don't want to take the Dark Mark, sir!"

"I am sure it will not come to that, Draco," said the Headmaster. "We must have faith that our colleagues at the Ministry will prevail."

Snape snorted derisively and shook his head, wondering why Dumbledore felt it necessary to fill the boy's heads with meaningless platitudes. Then he looked at Malfoy's pensive expression and he understood. He had spent seven years concealing an active dislike of a boy who exhibited many of his father's vices and few of the limited virtues of his mother, but now he saw him through new eyes. He needed reassurance and he needed to know that there were some constants upon which he could rely. Snape and Dumbledore were two of those constants, and the boy would need their support. If that meant letting him believe in fairy tales then so be it, but he still could not bring himself to echo the Headmaster's words, and so he said nothing.

"I'll take you back to the common room, Mister Malfoy," he said stiffly.

"Thanks, sir, but I think I'll go down to the Quidditch pitch for a while. Local team trials are in a few weeks, I could do with some practice."

Snape had returned to Ella's rooms to find her packed, and he tried unsuccessfully to put the Malfoy family's problems out of his mind while he held her and buried his face in her hair. She was always so warm and so welcoming, a balm to his troubled soul. He sighed heavily.

"What is it?" she asked gently, holding him close around his waist.

"He didn't take the news very well. He's scared." That was an understatement, he thought, wondering exactly at what point during his seven year tutelage of the boy the transformation had occurred, and what had caused it. Had it been a gradual awakening, or had the boy simply snapped one day having been subject to one abuse too many? "Apparently he's always known he'd be expected to take the Dark Mark after his eighteenth birthday. He's not that bad underneath – and he's terrified of his father."

"I'm not surprised!" Ella muttered feelingly.

"Like I told Potter, Draco was actually quite relieved about what happened before Christmas, thought it would let him off the hook. Now, he's not so sure."

He sat down heavily in the armchair and pulled Ella on to his knee.

"Off the hook? As in, receiving the Dark Mark?" she said perceptively, winding his hair round her fingers.

"Yes. You do understand that Voldemort wasn't defeated, don't you? I mean, not completely?"

"Of course I do! But surely he was weakened enough not to pose any threat? Not for a long time, anyway?"

Snape did not know what to say to her. She had undergone so much at Voldemort's hands through him, and he rather suspected that she held a far rosier outlook on the world than he, despite the many traumas in her life. He wanted to tell her not to be so stupidly naïve, to look outside the two of them and their love and accept that their idyll, while genuine enough, was akin to a tiny ripe segment of an otherwise wholly rotten fruit. 

But no, perhaps he should lie to her, cover her in a comforting blanket of reassurances and let her believe that the monster was vanquished and the forces of good had prevailed. Maybe he could even cocoon himself with her therein and begin to believe it himself. His brow knitted as he dismissed the ridiculous notion. It was highly unlikely that he would be permitted to bury his head in the sand. He had never allowed it before, and he could not let himself now. He could not frighten her with the bald truth of it, but at the same time he had to try to prepare her for the eventuality. His fingertips traced her cheek and he simply said,

"We don't know."

"Have they sent aurors?"

"Yes. The Ministry's in turmoil, they're running around like headless chickens, apparently. Nobody knew about Fudge, so nobody knows who to trust any more." He gave a hollow laugh and sighed, pulling her closer and burying his face in her chest so that his next words were muffled. "They don't know what to do first, go on a manhunt or conduct an internal investigation! Then, of course, there's the small matter of electing a new Minister for Magic!"

"About Malfoy..." she mused, "_You_ wouldn't have to go and join the search, would you? I need you here..."

Ah, he ought to have known that she would not shy from the crux of the matter. He shook his head and said evasively,

"Shouldn't think so. Don't worry."

She pulled back, determined to seek the truth from his eyes.

"You _will_ have to, won't you?"

"Honestly? I don't know. Maybe."

He felt her shiver in his arms as he drew her closer again. Finally he decided to change the subject and let her distract herself with hopes for happier times, saying,

"You all ready to go?"

"Yes."

"Sure?"

"What?"

"Sure you want to give up your bolt-hole?"

"I don't need a bolt-hole from you, love."

"You _did_," he answered as he looked at her solemnly, raising an eyebrow. It would not hurt to remind her of his insecurities. The Fates knew, they were genuine enough, but if he acknowledged them to her she would be able to lose her own fears while allaying his.

"I know better now," she replied, silencing him with a finger on his lips. He closed his eyes and sighed. He had seen the range of emotions flash across her face as she spoke; fear and confusion had been chased away by concern and determination. His tactic appeared to be working and he was thankful for it.

"And how about you?" she asked. He opened his eyes enquiringly. "You might get sick of my...incessant prattle!" 

"I'm getting used to it," he shrugged. "Anyway, it was too quiet without you. I was lonely."

"And now you'll never be lonely again," she said as she kissed him. 

He hoped she was right, and her kiss went a very long way towards convincing him. He adored her and there was nothing he wanted more than to keep her in his life for ever more. If he could protect her and their child from the evil that was still at large in the world outside then he would die a happy man in the trying. 

At length his mood lightened considerably and he allowed himself a wry smile as he wondered whether she painted her lips with Euphoria potion, for the merest brush of her mouth on his made his heart swell. He broke their kiss reluctantly, wanting to share some happy news with her now.

"Let's go. I have something to show you."

"What is it?"

"Our new home!" he said importantly.

"The Headmaster agreed?"

"The suite's ours as soon as we want it!"

"Oh, _now_!"

He pushed her off his lap, delighted at the excitement that bubbled from her, and stood up.

"The rooms are a bit - neglected, you know," he warned.

"So? That all adds to the fun!"

"Does it? Hmm. If you say so..."

Ella's enthusiasm had been quite infectious and by the time she had taken his hand and led him across the dim and dusty room that was to be their main living area into the small turreted room beyond that she intended for a nursery, he was as enamoured of the project as she. Her eyes sparkled and danced as she made him explore each and every corner with her, and he listened and watched as she talked nineteen to the dozen about her plans, and he found himself falling in love with her even more. She wanted this as much as he. She was giving him everything he had not even known he had wanted until he met her, and it was something he had never expected and the shock of it all still took his breath away. He held her close in the small whitewashed room with its turret overlooking the lake, and he imagined her sitting there with his baby in her arms while he watched them both. 

She ran her hands along his spine and the small of his back twitched in pleasure. He knew from her caresses that she wanted him, and his body reacted with its usual alacrity. Always aware of everything about her, his arousal heightened his senses until the scent of her flared his nostrils and the brush of her hair under his chin sent delicious signals to the pit of his stomach and beyond.

"Severus…" she murmured, rubbing her cheek against the buttons that lined the front of his frock coat.

"I know, me too. Come on."

Unfortunately an afternoon begun with an hour of passion was to be denied them. Stealing kiss after kiss on their slow walk to the door, Snape had failed to take note of the passage of time and before he knew it Ella had pushed him, laughing, into the corridor where he stumbled and was faced with a most untimely surprise. He froze, glaring down the corridor at his third year Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw class, agog with his every move. _Damn it_. He straightened up to his full height and said icily,

"Well, what are you waiting for? Get inside!"

Ella chose that moment to peer around the door jamb, sniggering, and he pushed her hurriedly back inside the room, closing the door behind them. 

"It's my third year class!" he hissed. "What time is it?"

"It must be after lunch already!" 

"Damn it! I have to go. That's _another_ afternoon spent wanting you!!" he said, highly annoyed. Ella pouted in disappointment and stroked his rapidly diminishing length with sure, knowing fingers. Just once was sufficient to bring it back in full force and he groaned as he grasped her wrist and kissed her longingly.

"Oh dear..." she mocked, obviously enjoying his discomfiture.

"I'll see _you_ later!" he warned as he swept out, intending to punish her most severely for her behaviour and trying to hide his smirk as he flung open the door to his classroom.

******************

Please leave a review.


	22. Experimentation

**Chapter 22**

**Experimentation**

****

The family returned to the school just in time to prevent its youngest member from launching into a vociferous complaint against her neglectful parents, whose leisurely stroll home had forced her to be awake for all of ten minutes without being fed. Once safely ensconced in her nursery with both her parents in attendance, Persephone condescended to a late lunch followed by a brisk change into more comfortable clothing. Thus mollified, Ella played with her for a time while her husband fetched some scrolls from his office into the nursery, sitting in the turret's rocking chair so that he could enjoy the company of his family while he worked. 

However, he soon tired of lesson plans and the scrolls were put to one side. He barely changed the curriculum year on year anyway, while his daughter altered with every passing day and he wanted to commit each change to memory. He stood and deftly began to unbutton his frock coat, removing it and folding it across the back of the chair before crossing his long legs and joining them on the floor in a graceful, fluid movement. Ella looked across at him and smiled, and he held her gaze, conveying more in a few seconds than he could hope to impart in a lifetime of words.

He reached out to his daughter, small and gurgling on the white fur rug, and placed his large hand over her belly so that his thumb and forefinger rested against her armpits. He grinned at Ella quickly as Persephone's arms and legs began to pump in excitement, and he tickled her until her gurgles became crows of delight. Ella laughed and rose to her knees, leaning across to kiss his cheek tenderly before getting to her feet.

"Make sure you tire her out," she said, running her hand over his hair as she passed behind him. "You said you had plans for me this afternoon, remember?"

He grabbed her wrist and raised a mocking gaze to hers.

"As I recall, it was _you_ who made your intentions for this afternoon crystal clear! But I'm sure I can accommodate you."

She leaned down to whisper against his cheek,

"I'll be waiting for you…" and then she was stepping lightly from the room, singing to herself. He looked after her until she had half closed the door to their bedroom behind her, and then turned his attention back to the baby in front of him.

"I think it's time for your nap, Persephone!" he announced firmly, cradling her in his hands and resting her in the crook of his left arm. Her deep blue eyes looked up at him and she frowned, then waved her tiny fists and yawned. "That's right, little one, you _are_ sleepy, aren't you?" he murmured. "Ten points to Slytherin! Oh, and Ravenclaw too, I suppose."

He stood up awkwardly, bracing himself with one arm against the seat of the chair, then tossed his hair from his eyes and watched Persephone's face as she succumbed to his gentle rocking. Before long her eyelids were drooping, and he placed her in her cot with satisfaction. Once he was assured that she had indeed gone to sleep he closed the nursery door quietly behind him and smirked as he made his way across to the bedroom. 

He pushed open the bedroom door and stopped in his tracks, almost moaning out loud as he saw her. She was sitting in the armchair beside the fire and all she wore was the glow of its flames as the shadows they cast flickered over her naked body. His own reacted immediately, of course, and he tugged at his shirt buttons impatiently as he strode over to her. 

"That was quick!" she said, surprised.

"I was highly motivated," he replied as he unfastened his trousers.

"Here, allow me…" Ella slid to her knees before him and fastened her hungry gaze on his torso as she slipped her hands around his hips and pushed down his trousers. He rested his hands on her shoulders lightly but they were soon tangled in her hair as she fastened her mouth over the straining bulge of his silk underpants.

"Ella! Gods, woman, what are you doing to me?"

Ella was too busy to reply to what had been, after all, a rhetorical question, so he simply groaned as her hands cupped his sac through the silk and tightened his grip on her hair. She was amazing, he thought hazily as she nuzzled into his groin and rubbed her cheek up and down the length of his erection while her hands slid up underneath his underpants to cup his buttocks and pull him to her. He wanted more, so he reluctantly pulled her head from him and croaked,

"Let me sit down."

He took her place in the armchair which creaked as he settled into position and she stood before him, her chest rising and falling in excitement. He stared hungrily at her dusky pink nipples and contoured areolae, full and ripe, and she saw the expression on his face and straddled him, leaning over him so that the pendulous fullness of her breasts swung inches from his mouth. He licked his lips and ducked his head, capturing one of the nubs in his mouth and licking the sweet white pearl from its tip. She moaned and braced her arms on each side of the chair while he reached underneath her and found the fragrant wetness that coated her inner thighs and dampened her mound. He inserted one long finger inside her with a sigh of pleasure, and she reacted at once, rocking forward and pressing her mons into his palm. He pressed up against her and smiled as he took more of her breast into his mouth, and his free hand squeezed and pinched her other nipple until it began to leak freely over his fingers.

"Oh, Severus, stop!" she moaned feverishly before sitting down across his knees so that she could reach into his underpants and free his straining member. She looked down at it as if hypnotised, her eyes glassy, and dragged her thumb gently across the tip, wiping the glistening fluid and making Severus hiss sharply. 

She glanced up at him swiftly and his eyes bored into her, willing her to do his will, and she raised herself up slightly and moved closer. He took her hips and positioned her so that he was poised at her entrance, and she stayed over him, holding his head in her hands and pressing her forehead to his. He could feel her arousal lubricating the hyper-sensitised head of his erection and his breathing grew shallow.

"Now, Severus!" she begged, and his penis leapt at the passion in her voice, brushing her centre and making her gasp out "Please!"

One hand moved to the small of her back and the other stayed at her hip, pushing her down on to him and against him in one swift movement. Ella threw back her head, pushing her breasts against his chest, and then her hands were on his shoulders and she was kissing his hair and his cheeks and his neck and all that he could do was wrap his arms around her and try to hold her still, for her abandon would cause in him too early a release. 

She was so soft inside, and so wet for him, and she massaged him so sweetly…He forced himself to think about the idiot in the coffee shop that afternoon to try and forestall his orgasm, and his breathing slowed even as the frown line between his eyes deepened when he remembered the ridiculously inappropriate behaviour of Lockhart's cousin. Soon he was fully in control again and as Ella pulled back to kiss his eager lips, he placed his hands on her hips once more and began to lift her and withdraw, rhythmically and exquisitely slowly.

"Ella, you feel so good," he murmured against her lips. "And you're mine."

She moaned into his mouth and clenched her walls around him, making him shudder and increase the speed of his strokes. She took over the rhythm herself and so freed one of his hands to insinuate itself between them at the place where they conjoined, so that he could rest his middle finger against her clitoris and let her thrust up and down along it. She began to whisper his name then, over and over, and he smiled as he sensed her climax near. 

Her cries grew loud, and he felt the familiar tightening in his balls. He let the tension build this time, for he knew that her crisis would come quickly now, and he repeated,

"_Mine_!" which was all the trigger she needed, and sure enough she came, shouting out her love for him and convulsing against him. He wrapped his free arm around her back and held her as still as he could, slowing her thrusts right down in order to deepen and prolong her orgasm for as long as possible, and her sobs triggered his own so that he came too, shooting his seed deep inside her and it went on and on until he felt he could endure the bliss no longer.

She lay in his arms, trembling, and he felt the aftershocks of her orgasm as her muscles contracted spasmodically around his shrinking member, sending needle sharp twinges of sensation through it.

"I'm yours!" she whispered against his collarbone, and he felt warm tears on his neck. He stroked her hair from her face, and kept on stroking until she was still.

Eventually she lifted her head a little and their lips met once more, tenderly now. He lifted her from his lap so that they could dress, and as he looked down at his lap where she had been he saw the dark green of his shorts was black where they had soaked up all her wetness. The sodden fabric clung to his skin now, and as he watched her walk unsteadily to the bathroom he smirked triumphantly. He did not think he would ever tire of the elation he felt at his effect on her.

By the time she had finished in the bathroom he had donned a robe and summoned a house elf to bring them some refreshments, so as she emerged, glowing and thoroughly sated, he was able to greet her with a kiss and a goblet of ice cold milk.

She peered into the goblet.

"Milk? I would have expected champagne, after what we just did!"

"I'll have yours as well as mine," he grinned, flourishing his champagne flute. "You need to think of Persephone, and _after what we just did_, you need to keep your strength up!"

Ella glared at him but took the goblet and drained it. 

"Happy now?"

"Ecstatic, thank you!" he said superciliously. "Now come to bed with me. The house elf brought strawberries and chocolate, but no plates…so I'll simply have to eat them off you!"

                   ***************************************************************

When Ella had discovered Gruber's secret library in their new apartments he had been disappointed at first. It had appeared that Gruber had simply been too lazy to go to the school's main library, preferring to duplicate the small section in which his main interests lay within his own private rooms. However, on closer examination he found that the eccentric Potions master's long forgotten collection contained several personally annotated volumes that could potentially help him to remove his Dark Mark. He and Ella spent some hours poring over the relevant volumes and as they discussed their findings a small seed of hope began to germinate deep inside him. 

Over the years he had tried countless ways to excise the unsightly blemish from his arm. Potions, poultices, spells, even the searing pain of the self-wielded surgical scalpel had failed utterly. It had faded during the years of Voldemort's weakness, dulled to a pale pink against the white skin of his inner forearm, but he had still been reminded of its baleful presence every day. At best, it was a constant itch that he could not scratch, while when he was summoned its maleficence grew until it seemed that every pain receptor in his body had rushed to coil around the serpent and leap into the mouth of the skull, until the agony was so overwhelming that he would have severed his own arm had the Mark allowed it.

It both channelled and contained the darkest magic he had ever encountered, and despite years of study and of effort, he had never even come close to discovering how its poisoned legacy could be denied. Now, with the discovery of these books, he had felt the unmistakeable paradigm shift and so once more he allowed himself to hope. 

Ella knew he wanted few things more than to be rid of it, but he had spared her from any lurid accounts of self-mutilation and the after-effects of deliberate ingestion of various poisons. There was little to be gained from it, and she would be perceptive enough to realise the importance of her discovery without asking him to detail his past efforts.

They had been poring over the volumes together and arguing heatedly about the efficacy of various compounds in healing balms when Snape had made the discovery that intrigued him so. He had been examining a volume called "Magickal Mandragora" which contained rare botanical references, and also a detailed handwritten recipe for a variant of a known healing balm. He had shown it to Ella at once, trying to sound impassive, but suspected she had not been fooled. He could not concentrate afterwards, and eventually he sat back and threw down the volume and ran his hand over his eyes.

"That's it, I've had enough!" he announced tiredly. "Tomorrow we'll try some of these potions. And I'll prove you wrong about the Healing one! The notes suggest it may be effective in the removal of – well, _this_." He thrust out his left arm carelessly.

"We'll see," Ella replied, "but I think you'll find _my_ translation makes more sense."

"But it isn't absolutely _correct_!"

"I know, but the _sense_ is there. I have a feel for it."  
"A feel for something isn't the same as being right! Potions making is a subtle science – "

" – And an exact art, yes, I know, you've told me," she said dryly. He raised an eyebrow and continued,

" – And instructions must be followed _to the letter_!"

"Depending on how the letter is _translated_!" she insisted. 

She really was most gratifyingly tenacious, he thought, and his tension ebbed away as she continued to amuse him. Sometimes she seemed to forget that he had many more years' experience in the field than she, and although he admired her intellect and her quickness to learn, he despaired of her wilfulness and, indeed, of her outright refusal to do everything his way. He wondered whether she would mellow once they were married, and become more malleable, but he decided fondly that her stubbornness did have its advantages, was in fact rather attractive, and after all, he did love her. He escalated their already heated discussion with enthusiasm, steering her towards their bed and systematically working to remove her clothing.

"Severus," she panted as he lay over her, "Why is it that we always end up in bed?"

He stopped his exploration of her hairline for a moment and said huskily,

"Can you think of anywhere better to be?"

That seemed to put an end to their discussion in a mutually satisfactory way.

Over the next few days there was nothing to be done except wait. Certain vital ingredients were in Professor Sprout's hothouses and were not ready, plant extracts including pressed root of arnica, among others. He tried to put the matter out of his mind as far as possible and indeed it was easily done, for the students had left and he and Ella were free to wander the school at will without the risk of being happened upon in dark corners and sun-filled quadrangles by voyeuristic slack-jawed morons. And as for Sirius Black, he was spending a good deal of his time down in Hogsmeade, which was not sufficiently far away as far as Snape was concerned, but which would do.

At last Professor Sprout announced that the plant extracts were ready and handed him several small vials at breakfast one morning. He held them up to the light and examined them closely before concealing them in an inner pocket of his robes. 

"We'll start at once," he said hoarsely. Ella put her hand on his shoulder.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm eager to start, that's all," he replied with a small, tight-lipped smile. She nodded her acquiescence and said no more, leaving him to nurse his mug of coffee and try to damp down the insistent flames of hope that had begun to burn deep within him.

Soon afterwards, once Snape's coffee had gone cold in his hands and he had marshalled his thoughts and quelled his eagerness, knowing that in the precise area of potions making unbridled enthusiasm could very well hamper his performance, they returned to the dungeons. Rather than use the small private laboratory area in his private office, Snape had decided that since the classroom would be unused all summer they would be more comfortable using the large work bench at one end, where they could work side by side. He set up two small cauldrons nearby, and they spent the morning chopping and grinding the necessary ingredients. 

They each prepared their own ingredients. Potions making was an exact art, it was true, but it was his firm belief that there was room for a modicum of individuality in the process where those brews involving the healing arts were concerned. Their level of efficacy could so often depend on not only the skill but also the innate talent of the maker, and so it was important that the entire process, from start to finish, was carried out by the same person.

He watched Ella while she worked and was beguiled by the concentration set on her face. Her technique was not by any means polished, but he put his hands over hers and instructed her, and was gratified to note that she learned quickly. She frowned while she worked, and her lips were set into a thin line, twitching at one corner now and then. He watched surreptitiously through downcast eyes, his own skills so well honed that he was able to carry out his own preparations by touch alone. He finished chopping the various plants and dried animal by-products long before Ella and moved over to the cauldrons, filling each one with water and then supervising Ella as she added the correct amount of essence of arnica to hers. Once both cauldrons were bubbling away they set about grinding the various dried ingredients with mortars and pestles, and once that was done they began to add their prepared items one at a time. Before long, they had prepared two batches of the basic burns healing potion so commonly used in the wizarding world. 

The next step was to add the other ingredients so meticulously listed by Professor Gruber. Following their exhilarating discussion about the semantics of Professor Gruber's annotations, they had decided that Snape would follow the literal translations while overseeing Ella's work, which would follow her rather more florid interpretation of the arcane words. He did not expect her potion to be a success, but he humoured her because he was deeply touched by her enthusiasm, and her determination to help him. Once he had proved himself to be on the right track he felt sure that she would overcome any feelings of inadequacy and devote herself to helping him perfect his own brew.

His conviction that he had succeeded in correctly carrying out Gruber's instructions was strengthened when his potion turned clear green, as Gruber had predicted in one of his many handwritten entries. Ella's, on the other hand, was a similar shade but almost opaque, and he felt a pang of disappointment on her behalf. To her credit, she did not seem unduly upset and he took heart from that. She was so strong, and he wondered whether in fact she was stronger and more determined even than he.

The incantations took some considerable time to perform, and for a while he became so completely absorbed in the mystical process that he forgot that he was not alone. He was a scientist, first and foremost, an adventurer for knowledge and an expert in its application; but he sometimes felt that he had the soul of an artist, and while he loved the predictability of his science, he could, when appropriate to the task in hand, appreciate its artistry equally well. He murmured the words and sparks guttered from the tip of his wand, making the cauldron bubble and hiss and blurring his vision with steam. That did not matter, for he knew without doubt the condition of the potion within the burnished copper walls of the cauldron and he was confident that all was going according to plan.

Satisfied with his progress, he crossed swiftly over to the workbench where one of Gruber's books lay open. He had two more spells to cast, and then his brew had to be left alone for a time before the lacewings were added. 

That done, he turned his attention back to Ella. She moved around her cauldron with such sensual grace that he wondered how he could ever have blinded himself to her presence. The steam from her cauldron had dampened her hair and loose tendrils clung to her cheek as she worked. As he watched her she grew impatient with it and clamped her long cherry wood wand between her teeth as she took her hair and wound it into a rough twist at the nape of her neck. Sparks still gutted from its tip and he wanted to castigate her for her carelessness. Did she not know that her magic could resonate in her wand for minutes after casting a spell? Wands were weapons more dangerous than any sword, and she of all people should pay more heed to basic safety. However, he could say nothing to her since now she was in the middle of reciting a vital incantation and he had no intention of interrupting the flow of her concentration. She looked wild, primal, powerful and more womanly than ever, and he found his body in vigorous agreement with his mind as he watched her almost dance around the cauldron. Once she had been still for a while, he realised that she had reached the same point in the procedure as he. "How's yours doing?" he asked her, dropping the last lacewing into his cauldron.

"It's fine!" she replied as hers fell. He smiled briefly and bent his head to his work once more, stirring the simmering mixture with the tip of his wand. Soon he would know the worth of Gruber's addenda, and he was filled with apprehension. It did not do, to hope so desperately, and he felt that he needed to keep his tension well hidden from Ella. She would worry about him far too much if she knew the strength of his feeling about the ugly disfigurement he wore, and he did not want her pity.

He sauntered over to Ella's cauldron a short while later, and peered into it suspiciously.

"I don't like the look of yours!" he observed, forcing a casual note into his voice. 

"Doesn't matter what it looks like," she shrugged. "You'll see, I'm right."

He huffed, unconvinced. She smiled reassuringly, and he frowned down at her, seeing understanding in her eyes. Blast the woman, she could read him like a book.

"I've finished," she announced. "I have to wait two hours and twelve minutes, then strain it through linen."

"…While I have to wait two hours and twenty minutes, and strain mine through muslin!"

"Which means we have over two hours for lunch and…recreation!" she smiled, reaching up to stroke his cheek. He sighed and closed his eyes, then turned to take a last look in the two cauldrons. He made minute adjustments to the burners underneath each, and then the couple left the classroom for the Great Hall, Snape wondering anxiously how on earth he would be able to keep up his casual façade in front of this woman for over two hours. He could not, of course. She knew him too well and her understanding and the love that blazed from her every time he neared her had always, and would always, disarm him completely, destroying all his defences. 

He ate his lunch mechanically with unseeing eyes. His gaze was turned firmly inward as he remembered the chilling spring night that had seen the Dark Mark branded into his arm, when he had believed there to be no greater aspiration in life than the pursuit of knowledge. He had knelt at the Dark Lord's feet and presented his forearm to him, Lucius Malfoy the only witness, Snape's clenched fist the only outward sign of his agony as the tattoo bled from Voldemort's fingertips to wind its tendrils along his wrist and towards his inner elbow, stopping halfway to coalesce into the skull and serpent design that Lucius Malfoy had shown him with such pride the previous summer. The same summer he had saved Caius from the snake bite in the woods.

He pushed his plate away. The memory made his arm itch and he rubbed at it absently through the heavy cloth of his frock coat, heedless of Ella's concern until she placed a gentle hand on his arm. 

"Severus, would you like to go back now?" 

"I would, yes," he muttered distractedly. "I'm not hungry."

Back in the dungeons he checked the hourglass in his office and paced up and down the length of his office, raking his hair from his face impatiently at regular intervals. The time was dragging unbearably, and eventually they decided to wait in the classroom so that Snape could look into each cauldron in turn, muttering under his breath,

"It doesn't look right, it can't be right, it won't work, neither of them will work…"

 "I understand, Severus," Ella said, cupping his cheek in her hand. "I know how much you want these to work. But if they don't, we just try again, that's all!"

He closed his eyes and drew her to him with a heavy sigh. He knew that she was trying to understand, and he loved her for it, but she could have no idea how important it was to him.

At last the time was up, and they each set about straining their creations into two glass bowls. To Snape's relief, his was still the same clear green that it had been two and a half hours before. Ella's, unfortunately, had turned a muddy brown. 

The straining process was straightforward, and soon we had two glass bowls filled with liquid, He was too tightly wound to offer any words of consolation, however, as he took a folded piece of linen cloth and dipped it into his bowl. He rolled up his sleeve and applied the poultice to his arm so that the Dark Mark was covered completely, pressing down hard with his right hand and gritting his teeth in pain.

"Argh!"

"Severus, are you alright?" Ella asked, her hand fluttering to her mouth in concern.

"Yes!" he gasped, before removing the poultice and looking down at his forearm. The Mark was unchanged.

He wanted to scream and shout, to rail against the Fates for their cruelty. Taking the Dark Mark had been the worst mistake he had ever made in his miserable life and the discovery of Gruber's notes had offered him the first real hope in years that he could rid himself of it once and for all. He had lost count of the failed attempts to excise it, the fleeting fragile hopes always dashed. This time he had thought the Fates to be on his side for once. They had finally allowed him Ella and their child, and foolishly he had imagined that his luck had changed. He was so in love that it had seemed as if everything he touched could turn to gold. He had been fooling himself, he could see that now, and while he knew he still had his love and his family, and was thankful for them, he had been counting on even more good fortune. 

What use had it been, to spend all those hours poring over Gruber's tiny, densely packed script, deciphering the annotations and cross-referencing the many different entries until his head swam and his eyes itched. All the discussions he had had with Ella, all the arguments, the time and the emotional exposure he had allowed. All of it had been for naught, and he still had to pretend that it was worth their while to try her concoction too.

"Now yours," he said grimly, taking the other piece of cloth. He knew that it would not work but he felt that he had to go through the motions, for her sake. She was bitterly disappointed for him and he wanted to throw the bowl across the classroom and go to his room to sulk, but he had Ella and her feelings to consider now.

"Let me," she offered, and he concurred. She saturated it with the muddy brown liquid and placed it over the Dark Mark, and with bated breath held it firmly in place.

"Gnnh!" It was agony, far worse than his had been, and he threw back his head in pain. Alarmed, Ella removed the linen and anxiously examined the scar.

Once Snape was able to open his eyes once more, after the searing agony had faded to a sharp ache, he glanced down at his arm. It was bright pink and blotchy, not surprising for twice-scalded tender flesh, but nevertheless it seemed that the darker pink of the ugly scar had faded a little in parts. He stared at it in disbelief, his brow knotted as he realised that Ella's potion had had some small effect. He could not believe his eyes and a small, bright light of hope flared deep within him as he realised that somehow, by some miracle, her efforts had succeeded where his had failed. 

However, a few moments later the flame was extinguished as the Mark's outline reappeared, as firmly delineated as before and all the more repulsive now after his short reprieve. Bitter frustration engulfed him as he realised that whatever effect the potion had had was transitory. He wrenched his arm from Ella's grasp and paced across to the window, unable to look her in the eye and know that both potions had failed.

"Did the second one feel any different?" she asked.

"Yes, it hurt more!" he snarled, turning his back on her abruptly as she reached for his arm.

"We'll try again, love!"

"What's the point?" he said bitterly. "I'm stuck with it for the rest of my miserable life!"

"We'll find a way, love! _Something_ happened just then!"

"Hah!"

"We will! I promise!"

His shoulders slumped and he turned to her then, his head bent so that she would not see the desperation in his eyes. He had so wanted to be rid of it. It was a constant reminder of what he had been, and therefore all too visible proof of how undeserving he was of happiness now. And then there was the baby. He did not want his child to grow up seeing its father's disfigurement. Eventually any child would have to know of their past, of course, but when the time was right. He did not want to hide his forearm from view every day until his child was of an age to understand. 

Ella took him in her arms and he rested his head on her shoulder and let her stroke his hair. He took a deep, shuddering breath at last and straightened, taking her slowly back through the classroom to his office, locking the door behind them and continuing through to the bedroom. He sat on the edge of the bed with a sigh, rubbing his eyes and going over Gruber's annotations in his mind. Perhaps they had missed something. He would have to study them again, perhaps paying more heed to Ella's interpretations the next time. Hers had seemed a little more effective than his, after all, so it was likely that a compromise would be more efficacious.

"Are you alright?" she asked gently.

"I will be. I shouldn't have had such unreasonable expectations at such an early stage."

He was about to suggest to her that they look again at Gruber's notes when they heard a loud crash followed by the tinkling sound of shattering glass. Something had happened in the adjacent room.

"Let's go and see what they've done," Ella said grimly and they hastened to their new quarters to find the house elves.

The house elves – or rather, Dobby, to be precise – had broken the huge antique crystal and brass chandelier that had hung from the ceiling in the middle of the large room. Evidently he had been swinging from it in an ill-advised attempt to clean it. Ella gritted her teeth and consoled the house elf, but Snape took little notice for as soon as he had entered the room he had felt the blemish on his arm prickle unmistakeably as it darkened and began to burn. Trying not to let Ella see his grimace of pain, a reaction he could not easily mask, he strode over to the window and folded his arms, clutching his blemished forearm to his chest instinctively.

It was Voldemort's signal; not a summons, exactly, more of a warning. The Dark Lord lived still, and he wanted Snape to know. He made hurried excuses to Ella, ensuring that he did not give her the opportunity to ask any awkward questions, and flooed immediately to the Headmaster's office.

"Dear boy, your place is here, at Ella's side," the Headmaster protested mildly as Snape paced his office.

"Do you think I don't know that?" he snapped bitterly, turning on his heel to glare at Dumbledore as he rose to his feet and planted his hands on the desk in front of him. The old man looked weary and resigned, and Snape knew that he had no real argument to make against his leaving. "Don't you think I want to stay? The idea that I might never come back – might never see my child – and how can I tell _her_ of the risks?"

He ran his hand through his hair, brushing long strands of it back from his forehead only to have it flop back again unnoticed as he sank into one of Dumbledore's chintz armchairs.

"I won't let you go alone, Severus."

"So you won't stop me either?" he asked bitterly.

"I cannot deny that I would like to, but unfortunately I must admit that you are right. Your Dark Mark will be an invaluable aid in locating Tom and Cornelius, and I will rest far easier in my bed once young Draco has been returned to school." He took the armchair opposite Snape's and waved his hand, summoning a small occasional table on which stood a silver tray with a crystal decanter and two tumblers to match. As soon as he had passed one of the firewhisky-filled glasses to Snape he reached into his robes and withdrew a handful of Floo powder.

"Remus Lupin!" he called as he tossed a pinch into the fire. 

"Oh, no!" Snape muttered as the werewolf's head span giddily in the flames, slowing to a halt as Snape drained his glass.

Snape knew that he was in no position to disagree. He had to admit, even if only to himself, that Lupin and Black were tolerably proficient at defending themselves and would, on balance, be more of a help than a hindrance. As travelling companions he tried to think of two worse, but there were none. He shook his head impatiently as he nursed his second firewhisky. Unfortunately, nor could he think of any better, either. He had sat silently while the Headmaster had apprised them both of the plan to go in search of Voldemort and his faithful servants, stifling his contempt in the futile, childish hope that by not acknowledging it, it would not happen, and now he sought the words he would need to break the news as gently as he could to Ella.

AUTHOR'S NOTE; Thanks to all who have given feedback, it means a lot. Please leave a review.


	23. Investigation

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

In this chapter we discover what adventures befell Snape, Lupin and Black on their enforced sojourn in Eastern Europe. Their interactions were a lot of fun to write, so I do hope you enjoy it

Please leave a review.

****

****

**Chapter 23**

**Investigation**

"It's very decadent, you know," Ella sighed happily, peering down at her chest where a small droplet of chocolate remained. She scraped it up and licked it from her finger as Severus stretched beside her and murmured sleepily,

"What?"

"This. Taking to our bed in the middle of the afternoon…"

"…And eating both _from_ and _of_ one another?" he queried, shifting on to his side and capturing one of her nipples in his mouth.

"Exactly…" she whispered, closing her eyes and stroking his hair languidly. He stopped and turned over to rest his weight on his folded elbows, looking down at her.

"Remember when I had to go away?"

"Only too well," she frowned.

"This is the sort of memory that kept me going," he said abruptly. "All those hours spent searching, all the nights lying awake and thinking of you, and with only Lupin and Black for company. Gods, it was desperate!"

His eyes flashed sardonically and she smiled pensively.

"I missed you so much," she said. 

He did not answer. His eyes travelled over her face, as if he was mapping every inch, and he leaned over her and brushed his lips over hers, nuzzling her nose with his before resting his head on her shoulder and draping his arm across her body.

               ************************************************************

Ella had not taken the news well. She had wept and railed against him and Dumbledore, and he had taken her back to their rooms with a heavy heart, aching to console her and take her pain away but filled with the bitter knowledge that there were no words of comfort for him to offer her. He knew she needed him, knew she had grown to rely on him completely, and he had relished her dependence and her devotion to him, had fostered it, nurtured it, and exulted in it. He had wanted to be her whole world, even though the Dark Mark meant that his life would always be in danger. He had been selfish, encouraging her to limit her world to his, and now he had to abandon her to it having stripped her of her independence. 

She needed him, desperately, and his heart ached to see it for surely his need for her was as great, and he would suffer equally at their parting. This was love, this wrenching, gnawing pain in his gut that no surfeit of tender caresses and litany of loving words could assuage, because she needed him by her side, never more so than now when she was big with his child, and he could not wave his wand and make her world the perfect place he wanted it to be.

He loved her, that night, over and over until every crest they rode together flowed into the next and they each absorbed the other's essence into themselves so that when he looked back on it, from days and miles distant, he remembered only the wholeness of it and the beauty of it made him want to weep. He wondered whether he would ever know the bliss of loving her again, and he had seen in her eyes, in turn, the simple truth that if he should not return to her, no man would ever know her so thoroughly and so intimately. He had imprinted himself on to her incontrovertibly and he knew that no matter what the future held for her, there would be no-one for her but him. 

It had been their goodbye, and the agony of his leave-taking the following morning had been merely a formality to be endured with as much dignity as possible. Tears had coursed silently down her cheeks and she had whispered of her fears for him; and while he had reassured her to the best of his ability he knew in his heart that it had not been enough and that neither of them had been convinced.

He strode from her unseeing to the middle of the front lawn, flanked by Lupin and Black, and he had turned to take her in one last time as the Portkey activated and took him from her. Her stricken face stayed with him, as if burned on to his retinas, so that when the trio winked into existence in a cold frost-covered field the disorientation he usually overcame so easily made him stumble and hide his face in his hands. He could not allow himself to release the cry of anguish he felt at his desertion of his love; a cry whose twin he felt sure had burst from Ella as he had disappeared.

"You okay, Snape?" Black asked gruffly, ignoring his friend Lupin who had hunkered down on the grass and was rubbing the back of his head with his hand, grieving in his own way for Hermione Granger.

Snape straightened his shoulders and dropped his hands to his sides, trying not to flex his fingers as the familiar cold wave of dislike washed over him. Schooling his features into the scowl that came so easily whenever he found himself in Black's presence was a little more difficult than usual, but he managed it.

 "I am fine. I am used to this, after all," he replied snidely. Black frowned and turned away and Snape felt a small thrill of triumph. He knew only too well that Black's incarceration in Grimmauld Place had simply replaced one prison with another, and it had rankled with Black to see Snape perceived as a heroic risk taker while he, still a fugitive at the time, had been a liability for the Order. Even though events at the Ministry two years before had led eventually to Black's rehabilitation, Snape still made sure Black remembered it. 

Lupin sighed and got to his feet, looking between the two of them anxiously before shaking his head and saying,

"Right then, let's get on with it shall we?" and striding determinedly in the direction of a rickety five bar gate at the corner of the field. With a resentful sneer, Black followed his friend and, looking around himself suspiciously, Snape brought up the rear.

They walked until nightfall, stopping at smallholdings along the way and asking the farmers as obliquely as they could whether they had seen anything unusual in their vicinity of late. The people they encountered were wary of them, not surprisingly, as strangers were rarely seen in such remote areas, but they were also quite suggestible and it was the work of a moment to mutter a Compello Veritas, a mild charm from the same group of charms as Imperius. That day's search proved fruitless, however, and nightfall was upon them long before they had reached the first town on their itinerary. 

There was a copse a short way from the roadside and Snape sat with his back against one of the tall tree trunks while the others hunched over a small camp fire.

"I still don't see why we can't just fly to the next town. It's dusk now, we won't be seen."

"Don't be stupid, Black!" Snape muttered. "Don't you think people would question how we managed to travel fifteen miles on foot in less than an hour, when it takes them at least two to travel by horse and cart?"

"So what did we bother bringing the broomsticks for, then?" Black asked defensively.

Snape pursed his lips irritably and closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the trunk of the tree and refusing to answer such an inane question. Lupin could explain the concept of contingency plans and travel by night and emergencies in language that the dullard could understand. He, Snape, had far more important things to attend to, namely remembering Ella's lips on his that morning and the sound of her voice as she bade him farewell.

"We'll sleep here tonight," Lupin said, taking a long stick and poking the fire desultorily. It was failing, but a simple charm would have it blazing until the morning, if they so chose. "In the morning we'll head for the town, ask in all the likely places. Spend the rest of the day there, if it looks like it'll be worth it. Go to the local inn in the evening."

"We could go there now," Black complained sulkily. "I don't see why we need to wait twenty four hours for convivial company and a nice warm bed, let alone potentially useful information."

"Caution catches the Hippogriff, Sirius, you know that," replied Lupin tiredly. Snape lifted his head and looked at Lupin, his eyes narrowed, but Lupin was rummaging in his rucksack for supplies, so Snape folded his arms and let his thoughts drift.

"Watch over me," he had said to Ella as they parted. "You wear both emeralds now, and I'll know you're there." 

Those had been his last words to her. He wondered what she was doing at that moment, and whether she was thinking of him. He felt a tightness in his chest, a dull ache that he feared would not go away until he saw her again, and he sighed and pinched the top of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, rubbing his eyes wearily. Their mission was still in its first day and already he wanted no more of it.

The following evening had been spent in the town's only inn.  After a fruitless day's work the party had been tired and irritable and had wanted nothing more than three hearty plates of goulash and hunks of freshly baked bread, washed down with flagons of locally produced ale. Their collective mood was a little improved after their meal and while his travelling companions engaged the locals in friendly, affable conversation, Snape sat back in a darkened corner and observed. Surely someone in this backwater knew something, or was the Ministry's so-called intelligence completely wrong? The itching on Snape's forearm certainly suggested that their trail was at the very least lukewarm. All they needed was one witness, one clue, to heat it back up and give them a sense of purpose. 

Snape frowned sourly as he watched Sirius Black propping up the bar and engaging a rather tired looking barmaid in conversation. Her skirt was too tight and her lips too thin, and the red lipstick she wore bled into the wrinkles around her mouth. She laughed loudly and often and Snape winced as she favoured the lank haired Lothario with a coquettish cackle and a girlish tilt of her head. Give Black his due, he didn't let an insignificant little matter like a language barrier stand in his way. Snape wondered how far he would take the flirtation and shuddered at the thought of bedding such a strumpet. Huffing to himself, he realised that there had been a time, shrouded now in the grey mists of his distant past, when he had lain with such women; women who would keep a small copper bowl on the mantel. He still remembered the tinny clatter of the sickles and knuts as they were dropped into it on his hurried way out. 

Unerringly his train of thought led him back to Ella, and he felt himself sink further into his seat as his mind's eye followed the contours of her body, tracing each curve and each plane, comparing the dreary, downtrodden women in the bar with the vibrant warmth and vivacity of his lover. How he missed her, he thought as he drifted deeper into his reverie, almost missing the moment where Lupin, who had been conversing earnestly with a craggily built man in a tweed three piece suit at the next table, started with excitement and turned to Snape, saying in an urgent whisper,

"They were here, Severus! Not two days ago!"

"What? What did he say? Tell me exactly!" 

"He's the local doctor, can't speak any English, unfortunately, but I have a smattering of Russian, thanks to Charlie Weasley, not a million miles away from Romanian, I don't think – "

" – Yes, yes, alright, Lupin, get on with it!" Snape snapped impatiently.

 "There were two men, one blond and obviously of noble birth who had his son with him, and his manservant, who was short and portly and quite officious."

"Fudge, Malfoy's manservant? Good gods, the Minister of Magic reduced to being perceived as a common lackey!" Snape said with grim mirth. 

"There's more," Lupin continued excitedly. "They had no luggage, even though they admitted to being 'tourists', except for a large carpet bag that they kept with them at all times. Apparently the manservant was always sweating, and very pasty. Our man here says he appeared to be very nervous."

Snape studied the man closely, staring deep into his eyes and holding his gaze for long moments while he penetrated his thoughts. He had given Lupin a thorough and accurate account of things, and Snape did not believe that there was any more to tell.

"Hmm. I'm not surprised," he said thoughtfully. "I think there was a fourth member of their party, and Fudge would be exceedingly nervous in his presence. What were their plans?"

Lupin and the doctor had a further exchange, and then the other man rose to his feet, nodded his goodbyes and left the inn.

"Well?"

Lupin scratched his head, disappointed.

"He says he doesn't know, he never spoke to them. They stayed here, though, so Sirius might find something out."

"Only if he can speak the language. Body language won't help this time." Snape narrowed his eyes and allowed himself a sidelong look at Lupin as he smirked, "Don't you think you ought to go and offer your services as interpreter?"

Looking aghast, Lupin spluttered into his tankard of ale,

"No, no, I'm sure he'll manage!"

"Oh, come, come, Lupin! Where is your sense of duty? Where is your commitment to the cause?"

"My commitment has never been in question!" Lupin fired back angrily, wiping a moustache of ale from his top lip with the back of his hand. Snape sniggered and Lupin glared at him. "You know all the right buttons to press, don't you, Snape? You always did."

"And you are such an easy target."

"Well, remember this. We're all supposed to be on the same side here. We have a common enemy, and it isn't one another! And what's stopping y_ou_ using _your_ particular skills here, anyway?"

Snape chose to ignore that last complaint and quirked an eyebrow in faux disappointment.

"And here I was trying to demonstrate my solidarity with a little light humour," he tutted, shaking his head and staring up at the roughly plastered ceiling.

"You're bloody unbelievable, do you know that?" Lupin muttered.

"Oh, I try, Lupin, I try…now, tell me again about the carpet bag."

Fifteen minutes later and Black was leaning over the bar ogling the barmaid as she bent over to mop up a spillage from the floor behind the counter. She was laughing more throatily now and fluttering her eyelashes in a way that made Snape's stomach heave. He almost felt sorry for the idiot Black, and wondered how adept he really was at what Snape could only refer to as 'flirtatious interrogation'. The bar began to empty and soon Snape, Lupin and Black, as residents that night, were the only paying customers left in the bar.

Eventually Black slipped off the barstool and sauntered over to rejoin Lupin and Snape at their table. "Well?" Snape enquired, arching a brow.

"Can't understand a bloody word," Black grinned inanely, slapping his hands against his knees. "But she's going to join us for a nightcap once she's finished cleaning up."

"Cleaning up? Is that what she's doing?" asked Snape curiously as he watched the barmaid wink at them and leer at Black as she wiped down the length of the counter with a rather grubby tea-towel. "So, what you are saying, in fact, is that you failed miserably and require _my_ particular talent to glean from her the information we need?"

Sirius Black started to rise from his seat as if to lunge for Snape across the table, but Lupin grabbed his arm and forced him to sit down.

"Not here, Sirius! Remember why we're here!"

"Bloody well tell _him_ that, Remus!" Black muttered, glaring at a supercilious Snape and continuing, "As it happens, Snape, I _have_ managed to find out quite a lot!"

"Then perhaps you'd like to share it with us before she comes over?" Snape asked coldly, folding his arms.

"Oh, just give it a bloody rest, okay? I'm sick to death of your snide comments and your superior attitude!"

"Come on, Sirius, the sooner we find out the sooner we can all go to bed," snapped Lupin distractedly. His friend glared at him but then began,

"As far as I can tell, Malfoy and Fudge were here the day before yesterday. Had a boy with them who looked ill."

 Snape yawned pointedly, rolling his eyes as Lupin shot him a warning look.

"They were very nervous, and in a hurry."

"Really?" Lupin asked with interest. "I wonder why…"

"Maybe they knew that we were about to be set on their trail," said Snape thoughtfully, frowning into the middle distance.

"But who would have tipped them off?" wondered Lupin.

"The Ministry?" said Black. "It would have to be someone from the Ministry…or someone who had connections with someone who works there."

"Very good, Black!" drawled Snape, but he was denied the opportunity to give free reign to the insults rapidly formulating in his head by the hips-swinging approach of the formidable barmaid.

Black stood, offering her his seat with an expansive wave of his arm and a winning smile. She simpered, and sat down opposite Snape, favouring him with what she evidently believed was a seductive smile, showing nicotine-yellowed teeth that were all present and correct save for a couple of noticeable exceptions. Snape inclined his head briefly by way of an acknowledgement, and held her gaze for a moment until eye contact was broken as she leered at Black's long legs straddling the chair next to hers. 

Snape's nose wrinkled in distaste, her expression and the seediness of the lust he had seen as he read her an unwelcome reminder of passionless encounters in sordid darkened rooms. He stared at her, ignoring the distraction of the clumps of mascara that covered sparse lashes to focus on the pale blue eyes that finally met his once more. He probed her gently, searching for any memory of Malfoy and Fudge. It was an easy task; Malfoy had made an impression on her, he could tell. She had been in awe of him when first he entered the bar, recognising him as a gentleman and richer no doubt than anyone else who had ever passed through those parts. She had found him very attractive too, at first, so much so that she had barely noticed the nondescript little man following in his considerable wake, carrying a large bag of some sort. However, when the rich blond man had placed both hands on the bar and made enquiries as to the lie of the land in the area she had found herself shrinking from the coldness in his gaze, and stammering something about the way being easier to the east, the terrain more gentle and the hamlets more plentiful.

This time, Snape was the one who broke their eye contact. He glanced at Remus and nodded once, and the werewolf asked,

"Which way did they go, Sirius? Did she tell you? Did she see them leave?"

"She pointed up the road," Black replied.

"Up?" asked Snape sharply. "That would be…towards the east?"

Black shrugged noncommittally.

"Severus? What did you see?" Lupin asked. 

"Not now, Lupin!" Snape muttered, scraping back his chair. "I'm going to our room. We'll talk there. Are you going to pay the lady off, Black? I fear she'll be terribly disappointed," he said dismissively as he strode towards the stairs.

By the time Lupin had reached the entrance to their shared room Snape was sitting in the only chair, deep in thought. His head had snapped up as the door clicked open.

"Well, where is he? What are his sleeping arrangements for tonight?" he asked derisively.

"He's coming," Lupin replied, flopping on to one of the narrow cots. "Making his excuses."

"Hmph."

A few moments later Black strode into the room and closed the door, leaning against it and exhaling loudly.

"Phew! That was close!" he said. "I thought I was going to have to lie back and think of England tonight!"

"Not like you to turn down a quick rutting, Black," Snape said smoothly. "What's the matter, was she little too _dog rough_ even for a mangy cur such as yourself?"

Black was across the room and holding Snape by the lapels before Lupin could even react. His face was inches away from Snape's as he shouted,

"I seem to remember a time when _you_ weren't quite so fussy, Snape!"

"And would that be before or after _you_ had a holiday in Azkaban?" Snape countered coldly. "However did you manage, all those years? Are you sick of getting yourself off, is that why you try to shag everything that moves nowadays?"

"I'm warning you, Snape! – "

"_Including Ella_?" Snape shouted, shoving Black backwards and getting to his feet so that they were nose to nose, wand arms twitching at their sides.

"Enough!" shouted Lupin. "For goodness' sake, grow up! Both of you! In case you hadn't noticed, you're on the same side now, have been for years! Just – just bloody well get over it!"

"He started it!" 

"And _I'm_ stopping it, Sirius! I've had enough of this. We're not kids any more! People are depending on us! People we _love_." He looked between the two dark men, his eyes blazing with anger that faded gradually as he saw the two men's shoulders slump a little. "Now, Severus, something's on your mind. Tell us."

Reluctantly Snape tore his threatening gaze from his rival and crossed over to the window under the pretext of peering out into the night. He needed no witness to the pain that taunted his every waking thought these last days. It was bad enough that he missed Ella and worried for her so much that it was a physical ache without allowing Black to see it written all over his face. After he had collected himself he turned back to face the room, clasping his hands behind his back.

"They've gone west," he said finally. "Malfoy questioned the barmaid about the area, she told him the going was easier to the east, and more populated, so I'm convinced they've gone west. Whatever they're planning, they don't want to be disturbed."

"So, we follow."

"Yes, Lupin, at first light. We travel on foot, until we can be sure we won't be seen. And then, Black, we might be able to use the broomsticks! Won't _that_ be nice?"

Black scowled and began to undress, lifting his shirt over his head to reveal a long, lean torso. Snape looked away, jealously wondering whether Ella's fingers had ever run across that smooth, toned chest.

_Ella._

He missed her. He could not stand it, and he could not speak, so he stripped off his Muggle garb and slipped in to his bed, turning to face the wall and losing himself in thoughts of her.

                                                                       ***

They saw no sign of their quarry the next day, or the next, or the next. On the fourth day, one hundred miles deeper into barren country than their last known sighting, the trio came across a hamlet comprising no more than a shabby hostel, a general store and a handful of cottages. Having slept rough the previous three nights, they were tired and dishevelled and glad of the opportunity to sleep in a bed for the night, however insalubrious the surroundings. The owner of the general store was also the proprietor of the hostel and after they had agreed on a price for a room Lupin asked casually whether trade had been good in recent weeks. The man had smiled and said that business had been so poor that his wife had grown tired of maintaining the place when there were no paying customers to appreciate her efforts, or make them worth her while, and so she had gone to the next village thirty miles away to visit her mother. That had been three weeks ago, and the man grinned lasciviously at the timid, and very young, shop assistant at his side.

Snape had stared at the girl, and she had met his gaze fearfully at first. Reading her, though, he could sense that her fear was of the strangers and not of the oafish peasant at her side. Snape read her defiance, and her determination to do as she would, and he broke her gaze, unwilling to learn any more.

Meanwhile Lupin had thanked the man for his time, and turned to leave. It did not look as if they would learn anything here, and the trail appeared to have grown cold.

However, just as Snape had turned to follow Lupin, the man made a throwaway comment which neither Snape nor Black could understand, but which stopped Lupin in his tracks. Turning back, they had conversed for a few moments, Lupin's questioning becoming more insistent and the man's answers emphatic, until Lupin had turned to grin at his friends and said,

"Let's take this food back to our room, and eat. We have a lot to discuss!"

Their room in the hostel was basic, and would have been fairly clean were it not for the thin layer of dust that coated every surface in dullness. There was a single bed and a set of bunks, with a table in the centre of the room at which stood three rickety wooden chairs. In the corner was a small fireplace with a grey stone mantel, and in a curtained alcove was a cracked porcelain lavatory and sink.

"Barely better than Azkaban," Black muttered pensively. Snape shot him a curious glance, but did not reply. He was weary of living rough, and as far as he was concerned, the room was adequate for their needs. He tried to push from his mind thoughts of his own comfortably appointed rooms, and those new rooms he hoped Ella was in the process of furnishing for them both to enjoy on his return. If he returned, he reminded himself. The battle had not yet begun, and when it did he knew that there was no guarantee that he and his companions would prevail.

"So, Lupin, what did he say? Has he seen Malfoy and Fudge?" he asked abruptly.

"Yes," Lupin replied. "As we were leaving just now he laughed and said he wished he had paid attention when he was at school, during the war."

"Which war, Grindelwald?" asked Black, confused.

"No, the last Muggle war!" Lupin said. "He wished he'd paid attention in his English lessons because we were the second group of English people he'd had in his shop this week!"

"The first being a blond nobleman and his manservant?" enquired Snape, raising an eyebrow.

"In a nutshell, yes," said Lupin. "They asked about the town that's ten or so miles from here, but they also bought camping and climbing equipment."

"Damn it. When did they leave?"

"Yesterday, at first light."

"We've got to go after them!" said Black, leaping to his feet.

"No, Sirius, we need to rest. They can't be too far ahead of us now. And – and, well, we need to have our wits about us, don't we?"

"Easier said than done, in some cases," Snape muttered, waving his hand dismissively as Black opened his mouth to reply. He had only commented out of habit, and was too weary to pick a fight with any real enthusiasm. Black obviously felt the same way, as he simply swore under his breath and headed to the corner alcove to relieve himself.

After a frugal meal of cold cuts and black bread, washed down with ale, the three companions discussed a plan of action for the next day, and tactics for when they finally caught up with the absconders. They decided to go to the town the following day, to see if the trail was still fresh. When night fell they retired to bed, hoping to appease their bone-weary fatigue in the hard narrow bunks and thin blankets. 

Snape pulled off his black shirt, folding it over the back of his chair. He climbed into the top bunk and lay flat on his back, staring at the whitewashed ceiling whose plaster was flaking at the corners. He cast Silencing and Privacy charms and let his mind wander where it would. Looking at the cracks in the ceilings he imagined that one or two of them resembled the contours of Ella's face, even more so once Black had extinguished the flickering candle, and he sighed as he wondered what she was doing. The hour was not particularly late, so she may well be up, in the staff room with Hermione and Dumbledore, perhaps, or down in the kitchens drinking hot chocolate before bed. Perhaps she was even in the Infirmary for some reason – but no, he would not let himself worry like that. Whatever she was doing, she was well, and healthy. Dumbledore had promised to inform him the minute she went into labour. 

He preferred to think of her in bed, in their bed, thinking of him. He could almost see her lying there, her hair spread out across the pillows, her arms outstretched, her lips parting as she breathed his name.

"_Severus_…"

Her voice echoed in his head and he felt a thrill shiver through him. He imagined her slowly pulling down the linen sheet, revealing her full breasts to his mind's eye, the large pink nipples hardening as they were exposed to the coolness of the night. He imagined himself swooping down over her, hovering above her, dipping his head to take one of those peaks in his mouth, flicking his tongue across it and feeling her arch up into his embrace. 

His breathing quickened, and he shifted slightly on the bunk, feeling a warm heat spread across his abdomen as his erection grew. He reached down to unfasten his trousers and slid his hand beneath the waistband of his trousers, closing his eyes as he began to stroke himself. 

He could almost smell her scent, his memory of her was so powerful. He could almost taste her, and he imagined dragging his mouth down from her luscious breasts, down over her stomach, lower and lower until he could smell the musk of her arousal, until his nose was buried in her damp curls and his tongue lapped at her welcoming wetness. He grasped his shaft more firmly and began to pump his hand up and down, slowly at first, while his other fist clenched at his pillow. Now, in his mind, he was kissing his way back up her body, making her taste herself on his lips as he slanted his mouth over hers and plunged his tongue into her wet warmth even as his manhood echoed the action by sheathing itself deep inside her. He heard her call out his name,

"Severus, oh love, oh Severus, I love you!"

It was so clear, so loud in his head, that his eyes snapped open and he stared straight up at the ceiling.

"Watch over me," he had told her. "I'll know you're there." He was sure she was watching him now, and the conviction spurred him on and his movement quickened as he approached his climax, teeth bared in a silent cry of passion.

It was not the same, for how could it be? He was alone, hundreds of miles from her, and he missed her so much that her absence from his side was a tangible, physical stringing out of his nerves that nothing could assuage. He pulled the thin blanket over himself as he curled on his side, hugging the pillow to him with both arms rather than using it to cushion his head. He stared at the wall, unwilling to close his eyes and succumb to sleep because that would allow her to slip from his mind and he wanted to hold on to whatever he could of her, for as long as he was able. 

Sleep claimed him, in the end, and he dreamed of open roads with Ella always on the horizon, arms outstretched to him but beyond his reach. 


	24. Affiliation

**Chapter 24**

**Affiliation**

****

"Let me run you a bath," Ella murmured, reaching out to stroke her husband's back as he sat on the edge of the bed rubbing the back of his neck with his hands.

"Mm. Persephone'll be awake soon."

"I know. Don't worry about her, I'll hear her." Ella knelt behind him and draped her arms around his shoulders, resting her cheek against his hair. "You have some chocolate sauce in your hair," she noticed, sucking a strand into her mouth.

"Hah, I wonder how that got there?" he smirked, remembering their lovemaking that afternoon.

"You did seem to put rather a lot of it down here," she smiled, rubbing her hips against his back. 

"And I would have spent a good while longer licking it all off if you'd let me," he complained, turning round to nuzzle his nose along hers. "The flavour was quite unique."

"Stop it, Severus, we _have_ to get up!"

"Spoiling my fun again, Ella?"

"Running you a bath isn't spoiling your fun! I can promise you that."

Severus lay back and allowed Ella to massage his soapy scalp, her fingers alternately circling his temples and smoothing his long hair back from his face. Using a rinsing charm so that he did not have to move a muscle, Ella sighed happily as she felt him sink deeper and deeper into her embrace and she let her hands run down over his collarbone to his chest. His eyes were closed and she wondered whether or not he was falling asleep; the delicate hint of sandalwood and the occasional sound of the water lapping against the sides of the luxuriantly deep bathtub were very soothing. 

"I concede the point, this time," he murmured into the silence. "This hasn't spoiled my fun. In fact, I even dreamed of doing this with you, when I was away. Days on end without even a proper wash! Charms are all very well, but there came a point where I was so bone weary I would have welcomed a hot bath. Even one of your cloyingly sweet rose petal ones!"

****

                 **************************************************************

His dream of Ella, beckoning to him as he trudged endless roads but always out of his reach, could almost have been a portent, for the next day had seen the trio walking along such a dusty deserted road. He had grown weary of finding fault with everything Black said, for it was too onerous a task and all that he wanted to do was think about Ella and how soon they could all go home. Lupin had developed an annoying tendency to wax lyrical about his schoolgirl lover, and after an hour or so of pointedly ignoring the conversation Snape had eventually found himself answering in monosyllables simply to alleviate his boredom. An hour after that and he began to join in the conversation, reminiscing about Ella, cautiously at first in case it encouraged Black to speak up and offer smart aleck comments of his own. When he did not, instead reacting sympathetically and coming out with the odd commonsense comment that actually made Snape feel a little better about his lot, he found himself looking at him curiously, from the corner of his eye, wondering to his amazement whether there was in fact a trace of bearable character hidden under the veneer of obtuseness Black normally presented to the world.

Late afternoon saw them on the outskirts of the town the store owner had mentioned, and eyeing the Muggle traffic with deep suspicion as the townspeople abandoned the daily grind and made for their homes.

"We'll never find them here! Where on earth do we start?" Lupin complained in bewilderment.

"Simple, Lupin," Snape said airily. "This is the only way into town from the direction they came. They will have been tired and thirsty, as are we. Look around you. Where would they go?" he nodded across the thoroughfare towards a small black doorway with words above picked out in fluorescent paint. 

"Magic Mayhem?" Black puzzled. "What is that place, and why does it have an English name?"

"To make it sound exotic, I imagine," replied Snape dismissively. "And you can be sure that Malfoy would have noticed it too. He will at least have made a cursory investigation of the place, and so should we."

"Agreed," Black replied abruptly. Snape raised an eyebrow in surprise. Wonders would never cease.

The club was a cramped, dark place accessible by descending a wide black staircase divided by a sticky chrome handrail. Black managed to destroy any of Snape's less negative opinions of him by elbowing him in the ribs on his way down the stairs and joking,

"This is more like it, eh Snape? Dark and ominous? I bet you feel right at home now!"

Snape sneered at his back as he reached the foot of the stairs and a set of graffiti covered swing doors. The imbecile had no idea, none at all. He did not get a chance to provide a suitable retort, however, because Black had opened the doors and a wall of noise, previously muffled to an acceptable degree, blasted out of the cellar, loud pumping music accompanied by a low humming of excited conversation. 

Lupin looked uncertain.

"This doesn't seem like Malfoy's sort of thing at all." he said.

"A place full of scantily clad Muggle women in various states of excitement and inebriation? I think you over-estimate Lucius Malfoy's sensibilities, Lupin. Come on," Snape replied grimly, entering the dark smoky nightclub.

After a few minutes Snape began to wonder which particular circle of Hell he had descended into. Black was at the bar, as usual, and had three women hanging on his arm already. Snape and Lupin stood to one side, uneasily holding small glasses of an unidentifiable spirit for which they had been charged ten times its normal price as an admission fee. Snape managed to repel most of the female attention that came their way by glaring at them with the look he usually reserved for the Longbottoms and Creeveys of his acquaintance, but some of the more inebriated ones persisted in invading his personal space, pressing up against him and giggling inanely to each other when they realised their words could not be understood by the two mysterious strangers. Snape understood their thoughts only too well, unfortunately, and he recoiled from the grasping, passionless avidity of their attentions. 

He glared at Black, weaving his way through the heaving mass of sweating flesh back towards them with a fawning nymphet on each arm. He was beaming, but as his eyes locked on to Snape's, there was something in his gaze that alerted Snape to not turn away with a sneer this time.

The girls said a few words to Lupin, who translated hurriedly as best he could. All three looked from one to the other, and then in silent agreement they disentangled themselves from the women and made a hasty exit into daylight and fresh air. At the top of the stairs, they spoke.

"That way, towards those hills."

"Hills? Bloody mountains, more like!"

"Oh, shut up Sirius, let's go!"

The three companions set off down the street at a jog, knowing that they were pursuing a route followed by Malfoy and Fudge scant hours before. 

They soon left the town behind them, and stopped to rest and eat on a stone bench overlooking a lake which they would have to skirt in order to reach the foothills for which they were aiming.

Black had the annoying tendency of talking with his mouth full. Snape had noticed this before, at Hogwarts, but strangely the habit did not seem quite so repellent here, in the open air, preparing themselves for an encounter with the dark. Snape scoffed at himself. He was in no shape to duel with anyone, let alone Malfoy. Exposure to the two clowns with whom he was travelling was evidently having a deleterious effect on him.

"I bet Malfoy was hacked off with Fudge," Black observed through a mouthful of beef sandwich. "Letting his mouth run away with him like that, just because a half drunk wench pretends she fancies him."

"Indeed, for an ex Minister of Magic he was remarkably indiscreet," Snape agreed.

"Then again, Malfoy doesn't know we're on his tail, does he?"

"Perhaps not, but he isn't stupid. He will have his suspicions, be sure of that."

"We'll have to be careful, though." mused Lupin, rummaging hopefully in the brown paper bag that held the remains of their lunch. "If Voldemort's with him, he'll know _you're_ here, Snape."

"I know. And - he does. The Dark Mark began to itch yesterday, I told you that, but now.now it's burning. Here," he said grimly, unbuttoning the cuff of his shirt and pushing up his sleeve. "Look."

The Mark was black.

"Bloody hell," said Black. "So there's no doubt, is there? He's in that bloody bag they've got."

"So it would seem."

They sat in thoughtful silence for a while, and then set off along the small path that followed the bank of the lake.

An hour later they were well into the foothills and the terrain was becoming steeper and more rocky. The only signs of life as far as the eye could see were scrawny mountain goats that grazed on the patchy scrub that had replaced the rolling pastures lower down in the valley. They progressed slowly and on foot, not wanting to use their broomsticks in case their quarry spied them in the sky. They were only too well aware that Malfoy and Fudge could, themselves, have been airborne and therefore miles away by now, but since they had no concrete evidence that they knew they were being followed, they were most likely to be searching for a secluded shelter in the mountains, even searching perhaps for Giantish settlements. Also, there might be clues as to whether or not they had passed that way that might not be visible from the air.

As it happened, they encountered their enemy sooner than they had expected. It was dusk, and they had been scouting around for a suitable cave in which to shelter for the night when Snape saw a dull orange glow in the middle distance.

"Lupin! Black!" he hissed, gesticulating for them to duck down and near him. "Over there! A camp fire, and I see traces of a ward around its immediate vicinity!"

"That's them!" whispered Lupin grimly. "We've got them!"

"Silencio!" muttered Black with a flick of his wand, casting a privacy charm so that their conversation would not carry in the still evening air. "We need a plan," he continued. "We can't just go in there with all guns blazing."

Snape gave him a withering look but bit back the acid retort that sprang so readily to the tip of his tongue, suggesting instead,

"I suggest we wait for a few hours. They seem settled in for the night, all we need to do is wait for them to lower their guard."

"Agreed," said Lupin. "Let's talk strategy."

Two hours later they emerged from their warded hiding place and crept to the crest of the small hill over which they had seen the makeshift camp. All was quiet, and they could barely make out two sleeping figures and a large bag.

"Why do you suppose they didn't find shelter in one of these caves?"  Black murmured. This time it was his best friend who was first to point out his idiocy, much to Snape's grim amusement.

"Gods, Sirius, can't you smell it? What's the matter with you? I wouldn't want to be cooped up in a cave with that rotten stench, would you, Severus?"

"Indeed not," replied Snape smoothly. "But perhaps Black here doesn't share our highly developed olfactory abilities, Lupin. Don't be too hard on him, he can't help it," he finished smugly.

"Well, what on earth is it?"

The wind changed, gusting towards them for a moment and sending sparks from the distant campfire dancing into the shadows that surrounded it. Snape suppressed the shudder that threatened to send his body into spasms of nausea. He recognised the necrotic stench of decay only too well.

"It's Voldemort. Or whatever's left of him, anyway."

"I thought he was.well, disembodied, after what happened on the plateau?"

"Yes, but that was months ago, Sirius. Who knows what bodies he's been using since?" said Lupin. Snape looked at the werewolf with a dawning respect. He had underestimated Lupin's understanding of Voldemort's methods, that much was obvious. 

"He's a parasite, Black. Lives off other people, given half a chance, like that bumbling fool Quirrell a few years ago. Of course, Potter keeps thwarting him, which sets him back a few years every so often, but he's a tenacious bastard so he keeps on plugging away at it." Snape mused, straining to make out as much detail as he could of the camp area.

"That's a bit flippant, isn't it, Snape?" Black said critically. Snape turned towards him with a snarl.

"Think of me whatever you will, Black, but never accuse me of _that_ particular attitude, in particular where monsters such as _he_ are concerned!"

"No. Right - o, then," answered Black, suitably abashed. Now it was his turn to surprise Snape with a display of finer feeling. However, Snape had little time to come to terms with his shift in perspective, for Lupin suddenly raised his face up to the sky, and sniffed. 

"There's someone else here!"

"What?" Snape asked urgently, twisting to look all around them.

"I think it's Draco!"

Before anybody could react, there was a sudden crack and an arc of silver fire shot across from the far side of the makeshift camp, incinerating a small patch of scrub scant feet away from their position. 

"So much for the element of surprise," muttered Snape, drawing his wand and rising to a crouch. 

It all happened with alarming speed. One minute the trio was on the ridge casting hexes as forcefully as they could, the next instant they were fighting a rearguard action as well as Draco Malfoy, glassy eyed and moving like a broken puppet, advanced on them from behind. Obviously under the influence of the Imperius curse, he had nevertheless been able to Apparate to their side of the shallow bowl that sheltered the small camp. Apparation when not in full control of one's faculties was extremely dangerous because of the increased risk of being splinched, but Draco was in no fit state to worry about that, and if the maniacal laughter of Malfoy senior was anything to go by, his father was completely unconcerned.

"Stupefy!" yelled Snape in exasperation, aiming the curse at the blond man, wanting to wipe the gleeful smile from his face. Lucius neatly sidestepped the curse and Snape was given an unwelcome reminder of Malfoy's excellent duelling abilities as he countered with a determined Cruciatus. Snape doubled up in pain, only his years of repeated exposure to the Unforgivable preventing him from passing out completely. As he fell on to his side he saw Lupin retaliate by casting Petrificus Totalis on Lucius, who fell backwards into the shadows. _One madman down, two and a demon to go_, Snape thought blearily as he fought the effects of the curse and turned to see Draco raise his wand to hex him. As he lifted his arm Snape could see clearly the ugly black Mark on the young man's forearm. They had arrived far too late to protect him, that much was clear. Draco's voice rang clear through the still night air as he aimed his wand at Snape's heart,

"Avada Kedavra!"

Snape tried to roll out of the way but his back muscles were still in spasm from the Cruciatus. Black, however, wheeled round as the curse arced from Malfoy's wand, turning his back on Cornelius Fudge, with whom he had been duelling. He shouted,

"Deflecto Incantatem!" and light from his own wand intercepted the curse, directing it away from Snape. Lupin was then able to disarm Malfoy but Fudge had seized the opportunity to hex Black with a hasty "Crucio!" knocking Black off his feet and down a steep scree into the silent darkness.

"Sirius!" Lupin shouted hoarsely, but there was no reply. Swearing harshly, Lupin turned to Draco Malfoy who was standing feet away from Snape, his face devoid of any emotion, his arms slack at his sides. He performed a full body-bind on the youth, and turned to Snape.

"Get Fudge! I'm going after Sirius!" and before Snape could comment, he had begun to skitter down the scree, leaving Snape alone to face Fudge, and whatever it was that had begun to ooze its way out of the carpet bag and wind itself around the ankles of the ex Minister of Magic.

"Fuck!" he muttered, and cast a swift and effective body bind on Fudge. The greasy gaseous ectoplasm let out a bloodcurdling shriek and Snape would swear afterwards that he heard the word.

"_Sssseverrussss_." as it circled the hollow and sought its noxious refuge once more in the carpet bag.

He staggered to his feet and drew a protective ward around the area, securing the absconders. They would not be able to escape, and he had more pressing matters to attend to. As he followed his companions down the slippery hillside he frowned worriedly. At what point during their adventures had the welfare of two of the most despised men of his acquaintance come to take priority over the guarding of his greatest enemy, and his nemesis?

_This is ridiculous_, he thought as he skidded to a halt at the bottom of the slope, shards of stone clattering on the bare rock underfoot. _Like I care whether either of them live or die!_ The horror of it was that he knew he did, and it was brought home to him sharply when he saw Lupin's stricken face in full relief as the waxing moon revealed itself at last. He cradled Black's head on his knee, and he was crying.

"Is he dead?" Snape asked brusquely. Strangely, the idea filled him with guilt. It was something he had wished for often enough over the years, particularly since Black's escape from Azkaban. The Fates knew, there had been little love lost between them, and since he had met Ella the very thought of Sirius Black, with his tight leather trousers and his lechery had sent Snape into paroxysms of jealousy. And yet Black had returned Ella to him, admitting defeat despite having feelings for her, and had just saved his life. It would be churlish not to try and return the favour now. Nevertheless, he had to admit to himself that his concern hinged on more than a mere sense of the need for a little reciprocity in their 

acquaintance. He found, in the split second it took for him to weigh up this new situation, that he would actually prefer it if Sirius Black were to live.

"Well, is he? Come on man, move out of the way!" he snapped, impatient at Lupin's apparent inability to answer him. Lupin wiped the back of his hand across his eyes and lifted the insensate Black a little, revealing a dark stain on his trousers. 

"Head injury. Bloody great," muttered Snape. "Why couldn't he have broken his leg? Or his bloody neck?"

Snape sat back on his heels and ran his hand through his hair, absently rubbing the back of his head.

"Right. You know what this means, don't you, Lupin? One, we need to get him back to the hostel. We can't help him here. Two, we can't fly there or apparate. Even when he comes to - I said _when_, Lupin, not _if_! Now pull yourself together, man! _When_ he comes round, he'll be concussed and we won't be able to trust him on a broom, much less trust him not to splinch himself _and_ us! So, we'll have to do it the hard way, which means that _three_, there's going to be a delay in our telling Albus and getting Aurors down here!"

"But they could escape! Voldemort could - "

"You don't need to tell _me_ what he could do!"

"Go and get help! Apparate back to the hostel, tell Dumbledore! I'll stay here with Sirius!"

"Not an option, Lupin! Look at you, you're in no fit state to take all of them on, if they get past the wards I set! And _if_ they do, then I doubt _all three_ of us at full strength would be enough! We can't risk hanging around here to find out exactly how powerful Voldemort is!"

Lupin's face had set into grim determination as Snape spoke, and he knew his words had hit home.

"You're right. Check him over before we move him, though, okay?" 

"Yes, I'm not stupid, Lupin!" he snapped, passing his wand over Black's prone form and watching as coloured sparks guttered from its tip. The sparks were mostly blue with just a few red ones denoting bruises and lacerations, these concentrated more over his head where the hair was now matted and shining with blood.

"It could be worse," Snape said. "You'll just have to hope that his skull is as thick as his skin! Come on, let's lift him."

The trek back to the hostel took two hours, during which they kept glancing back over their shoulders, aware that they could be ambushed at any moment and not knowing when or whence the attack would come, if at all. 

Once they were on level ground they resorted to Mobilicorpus to take some of Black's dead weight, and Snape was relieved for it. He was forcibly reminded of his own rescue from outside the Shrieking Shack, and retrieval back to Hogwarts, and after a long silence said sardonically,

"Your turn next, Lupin, I do hope you realise that!"

Lupin looked across the top of Blacks lolling head, puzzled, and only when Snape glanced down pointedly did he get the joke. He grinned weakly and shook his head, and Snape actually felt a tepid glow at the strange camaraderie between them.

Black had regained a measure of consciousness by the time they had reached the dirt track that led to the hostel, and as soon as they had reached their room and secured themselves within, Lupin made Black lie on his narrow bunk so that he could check the extent of his injuries. He was no Poppy Pomfrey, but both he and Snape had between them sufficient experience of Healing to be able to do what they could to make Black more comfortable, and satisfy themselves that his life was not in danger.

Black was almost as bad a patient as Snape, for he soon insisted on rising unsteadily from the bed in order to sit, head in hands, at the rickety table in the centre of the room. Lupin was able to stand behind him then and perform some more Healing spells, while Snape searched in his backpack for the small pouch of Floo powder he needed in order to apprise Dumbledore of their situation. He threw a generous pinch into the fire that burnt half-heartedly in the grate, and called out, 

"Albus Dumbledore!"

After what seemed like an eternity, the Headmaster's head appeared and once its spinning had slowed Snape announced,

"Albus, we found them. They're about an hour east of our location, the one I gave you yesterday. We had to leave them there, bound and warded - Black's hurt - but I left a magical signature, if you send Aurors they'll see it. But they have to hurry!"

"I shall inform the Ministry at once. Severus, is Sirius able to travel?"

Snape looked behind him at the man sprawled out across the table, resting his blood-matted head on his arm. He frowned and glanced up at Lupin, who shook his head.

"No, Albus, not really. He sustained a nasty head injury in the skirmish. We've done what we can, but."

"Severus, there is something you should know, dear boy. An owl is no doubt on its way to you - "

"Is it Ella?" he demanded, alarmed. "Is she all right?"

"I am sure she will be, yes, as soon as she has delivered herself of your child," came the calm reply.

"She's in labour? _Now_? Well, where _is_ she?"

"Safely ensconced at St Mungo's, Severus. Please, do your best not to panic. She is in good hands."

"I have to go to her! Now! We must all go, Black needs attention - Albus, don't let anything happen until I get there! Goodbye!"

The Floo connection was broken before the Headmaster could comment on Snape's apparent assumption that he had the power to call on Mother Nature and ask her to postpone Ella's delivery, and Snape wheeled round to see Lupin already stuffing their belongings into their packs. He scraped back a chair and pulled it up next to Black's.

"Sirius?" he said urgently, unaware in his agitation that he had addressed the man by his given name. "_Sirius_!"

Black raised his head groggily.

"What?"

"We have to go. Now. It's Ella."

At Snape's mention of her name Black frowned and straightened in his seat, wincing as he rolled his shoulders and moved his head tentatively from side to side.

"What's the matter with her? Is she okay?"

"The baby's coming. Can you Apparate?"

"I don't know.I think so."

"Good man."

Snape got to his feet and gathered his belongings while Lupin helped Black into his coat. 

"We'll go to the central courtyard, it's the most familiar part and there'll be less chance for Sirius to get splinched," Lupin muttered nervously as he shifted the weight of both his and Black's packs on his shoulders and offered his arm to his friend. Snape nodded his assent, and seconds later the spells had been cast and all three stood in the moonlit courtyard of St Mungo's hospital. Black swayed and let out a moan, clutching his chest in pain.

"Come on!" said Snape grimly, draping the stricken man's arm over his shoulder and heading for the archway that led into the hospital. "Don't make me miss anything!"

                                                                           ***

He did not care that Lupin and Black were there to witness his emotional reunion with his soul's mate. As soon as he saw Ella, standing alone in the middle of the opulently furnished delivery room, her cheeks flushed but her skin otherwise pale and her eyes haunted with worry, he abandoned Black to Lupin and hastened to her, crushing her to him and kissing her ardently, professing his love all the time in between. He had feared never seeing her again and the fear had eaten away at him until he had thought he would run mad with it; but now all of that was forgotten and he rejoiced to be holding her once more.

 In his relief he forgot why they were there and so when she suddenly tensed against him and let out a long, low growl, his heart skipped a beat as he wondered whether Voldemort, by some inhuman means, had somehow followed their party back here and was even now in the process of invading her with his evil, clinging on to her back like the depraved succubus that he was, destroying her even as he held her, unable to protect her. Her arms flexed around his neck and she pulled down, hanging from him, forcing him to brace himself. As her distended belly tensed against him he realised, of course, and all wild imaginings about Voldemort fled his mind, only to be replaced by a deeper anxiety. 

"Love, what can I do?" he asked urgently.

"Hold me! Hold me!" she gasped as her contraction overwhelmed her; and so he did.

Her labour was long, and its first stage passed as if it was a dream. Sirius was taken to a private room and made comfortable, while Remus and Hermione returned to Hogwarts, promising to return as soon as they could. Snape resisted the urge to insist they take their time.

He was exhausted. The cumulative effect of weeks of trekking, worry and lack of sleep combined with capturing Malfoy et al and rescuing Sirius began to catch up with him just when he felt he needed all of his not inconsiderable wits about him. Ella would need him now, in these next few hours more than ever before, and he wanted to devote his full attention to her. In the mean time, however, while her contractions were still regularly spaced and, as far as he understood it, fairly manageable, he made the most of the quiet hours they spent lying together in the generously proportioned and surprisingly comfortable bed. 

They talked, at first, but when it was her turn to tell him of how she had spent the days without him, he found himself mesmerised by the cadences of her voice and the sensation of her gentle caresses on his cheeks and his lips, and lovingly he told her that what she was saying really did not matter to him, for the very fact that they were together and that she was saying it was enough and all that he could concentrate on. When she relaxed into a doze, he joined her; when she awoke, he did too, rubbing her back, breathing with her, murmuring to her, loving her, and all the time holding her close to him. He wondered whether she had any idea how good it felt to hold her again.

The second stage of her labour took him by surprise. She was pale and sweating, complaining of the heat in one breath and cursing the cold with her next. Snape fared little better, finding himself confused by her conflicting instructions as to what he was supposed to do. He gave a silent prayer of thanks to the Fates that the midwife whose presence he had found so intrusive a few hours before now showed no signs of departing until it was all over, for he felt pathetically inadequate and totally unprepared for the momentous changes that Ella's body endured as she gave birth to his child.

Once she began to push he felt as if he was rooted to the spot. He had spent the greater part of his life priding himself on his control. Nothing and nobody had cracked his façade. He had been impenetrable and he had never - _never_ - let his emotions win out over his reason or instinct for self-preservation. And then he had met Ella, and all his defences had crumbled and become dust, and he had surrendered willingly. Now, seeing her transformed into the personification of Woman, a Goddess, he was awed, and speechless. Her strength and her determination humbled him and all he could do was watch as her primal urges drove her to push out his child.

The midwife's briskly efficient voice brought him back to his senses.

"Would you like to see your baby's head, Professor Snape?"

His baby's head. He could see his child. All that he had to do was to turn round, tear his eyes from his love and swallow the lump that persisted in constricting his throat. He turned round slowly to look at the midwife and nodded mutely, keeping hold of Ella's hand but sliding off the bed and taking a step down it to peer anxiously between her parted legs.

"Oh, Ella, I can see its head!" he said breathlessly, glancing up at the midwife as he asked, "Can I touch it?"

Hesitantly he reached down between Ella's parted thighs to where her skin was stretched tight around his child's head. His hand trembled as his fingertips brushed wet black hair, and he gasped in awe, but then Ella began to push again and hurriedly he took his position behind her, putting his arms around her waist and holding her up off the bed a little and firmly against him, his cheek pressed against hers. The helpless torpor that had paralysed him had gone, his first contact with his child galvanising him into action.

"Our baby has lots of hair, Ella! Lots of black hair!" he whispered in her ear. "Now come on, you can _do_ this! _Push_, love! _Push_!"

Ella moaned, and the midwife said the words Snape had been longing to hear.

"Now listen to me, Ella, the next time you have a contraction I don't want you to push. Do you hear me? Don't push! I want you to breathe the baby out. If you push, you might tear and I don't want that to happen. Just breathe. Help her, Professor!"

Snape took a deep breath.

"Breathe, like before when I was in bed with you, all right? I'll do it with you."

He locked his arms under her armpits and across her chest and she gripped them tightly, pulling on them as she tried not to push. He breathed and she breathed with him until the contraction was over, and then she fell back against him in exhaustion.

"Here's the head, Ella, you did very, very well! Come and look, Professor!"

Not wanting to relinquish his hold on her, since he knew she would need him again momentarily, he simply peered down the bed and his eyes widened as he saw his child's face.

"Oh, Ella! Oh, _look_!"

"I can't!" she moaned and as she pushed again Snape saw his baby slide from her in a rush of fluid on to the bed. "What is it?" 

His eyes widened in amazement as he looked at the small, mewling infant that lay between her trembling legs.

"A girl! We've got a little _girl_!" he replied hoarsely.

The midwife wrapped a blanket around the baby and lifted her on to Ella's chest.

"A girl!" Ella laughed, "And she's just like you!"

The lump in his throat could be swallowed back no longer, and he let tears stream down his face unchecked.

"I love you!" he said, not caring that the midwife could hear every word he said. "Both of you!"

AUTHOR'S NOTE 

Thanks to everyone who is reading, enjoying and hopefully reviewing this story. Only three more chapters to go!


	25. Jubilation

**Chapter 25**

**Jubilation**

Severus awoke early the following morning. Dozing for a while in that heavy-lidded, thick-headed way that comes of contentment and satiety, he came to only slowly, awareness dawning along with the bright late summer sun. At last, he sighed and shifted until he lay flat on his back, staring up into the high vaulted ceiling with the arm that had been removed from Ella's still sleeping form now slung over his head. His expression was impassive, as it always was in repose, but his eyes told a different story. His eyes were those of a man who had a terrible secret to impart.

Today, he had to admit to Ella exactly how important a part he had played in the murders of her family. He could put it off no longer. He had allowed himself to be sidetracked into fond reminiscences interspersed with hesitant admissions of his childhood failings, and he had wallowed in her appreciation and her love. Now, he had to disillusion her and pray that their love was strong enough to weather it. She knew much, it was true, of what he had done, what he had been. He comforted himself with that knowledge, but nevertheless he shrank from what he had to do, and as Ella lay slumbering at his side, her arm stretching across his chest as she stirred in her sleep, he began to plan his best course of action.

He would take her to Godric's Seat, he decided. She loved that spot, it held many happy memories for them both and from its vantage point could be seen the foothills where their wedding had taken place. A morning spent waxing lyrical on the joys of married life would impress upon her everything positive and wonderful about their relationship and such memories would remain uppermost in her mind to temper the hideous truths he still needed to impart. He stroked her arm idly and she sighed in her sleep. Perhaps he was being a little Machiavellian again, but it was only to be expected. Honesty was best prepared with a pinch of deviousness, after all. It would serve none of their interests for his words to drive her away. His desire for honesty had brought him to this juncture, after all, despite his nagging fear that it would signal the end for them.

He heard Persephone stir, and gently disentangled himself from his wife. She opened her eyes and half sat up, the bleariness of her gaze making him smile.

"Wha - ?"

"It's Persephone. I'll get her," he murmured, and she flopped back on to his pillow with a groan.

"I have some work to do," he announced as he lay his baby down beside Ella. "I want to go over my lesson plans for the first month of term, there are some minor changes I'd like to make."

"Okay," she replied sleepily, putting Persephone to her breast. "Are you starting now?"

"Yes," he replied, pulling on his trousers and deftly fastening all the buttons of his fly. "I'll join you for breakfast, though. Come for me, when you're ready."

The lesson plans sat in a neat pile on his desk, undisturbed. He stared into space, at his shelves, through the narrow deep set window of his office, at the workbench with its bell jars and test tubes, at the serried rows of stoppered specimen jars, anywhere but at the pile of parchment on his desk. He could not concentrate. Not on this day. Not when all his considerable powers of persuasion would be needed to save the perceived threat to his happiness that he had been brainless enough to engender. How could he have been so stupid? He had put her through enough, surely? She had married him despite his past and all his many and varied faults and was bound to him, for all time. The only way their magical and mystical bond could be broken was if either of them fell so completely out of love with the other that all hope of reconciliation was gone, so why had he insisted to himself that he should impart to her such heinous revelations? Putting her to the test once again, reluctant simply to accept that she loved him because why should she, when he certainly did not love himself and was therefore undeserving of anyone else's? If she truly loved him, then she would stay, but would even that be enough to convince him? He hoped so, for she had made him happier than any man had a right to be, least of all him.

He was startled from the churning morass of his thoughts by a sudden knock at the door.

"Come in, love," he said, running his hand through his hair and forcing himself to smile at Ella as she and Persephone came in. She stood in the doorway, dressed in green silk, and his breath caught in his throat.

"Are you ready?"                               

"Yes, I've done everything I needed to do," he lied, before continuing truthfully, "I'm - all yours. Shall we go up to Godric's Seat after breakfast? It's going to be a nice day."

                  ************************************************************

Fatherhood and marriage were two concepts that had been completely alien to Snape less than two years before. Less than 10 months before, to be strictly accurate. He had never been particularly interested in either, the unlikeliness of the latter more or less precluding any chance of the former. Now, the sacred bonds of marriage would soon be a glorious reality, with a life partner so beloved that he knew that even to lay down his life for her would be an inadequate expression of his devotion. Now, he was a father, and the tiny infant now grizzling softly in his arms was a part of him, a part of his beloved, a miraculous personification of their love, and a legacy he would leave behind him comprising all that was good, and pure. For once in his life he had done something of which he could be truly proud, something in which there was no hidden agenda, no taint of self interest.

Persephone, his daughter, lay in his arms perfect and innocent and a wave of emotion flooded his heart to spill out as joyful tears. He and Ella were alone, but even had there been a room full of people he did not think he would have cared, because his world had shrunk in on itself so that all there was in it was Severus Snape and his daughter, a tiny bundle wrapped in white with a shock of black hair framing a small round pink face. She overwhelmed him, and he loved her with a ferocity that was so sudden and so powerful that he could barely contain it.

Her little fist emerged from the folds of the blanket in which she was swaddled, and he laughed softly as her fingers splayed out and grasped at nothing. He was hypnotised by their perfection and knew then that he would never tire of looking at her. He wanted to share her with Ella again, though, and so he walked across the room slowly, carrying his daughter tenderly in his arms.

"You want her back?" he asked Ella. She was propped up on several pillows and her cheeks were still flushed after her exertions, her hair plastered to her forehead and her eyes giddy with happiness.

"I want you _both_back!" she laughed. "Look at you, it looks like I've lost you both to each other!"

"Here, go back to your mother," he said softly, kissing the baby's forehead gently. He laid her in her mother's arms, and then climbed on to the bed beside her so that he could embrace them both. The swell of love submerged him once more as Ella snuggled back into his arms and turned her head to look up at him. He held her gaze wonderingly before leaning down and kissing her tenderly.

"You are _incredible_, Ella. Are you feeling alright?"

"Never better," she replied, and he knew exactly what she meant.

Later, after they had been congratulated by Remus, Hermione and Sirius, and after he had joined Ella in a deep, warm bath and helped her bathe, relishing the exquisite sensation of her skin slipping and sliding against his, they slept, wrapped up in one another's arms. Ella fell asleep almost immediately her head hit the pillow, unsurprisingly, but despite his weariness he lay awake for quite some time listening to two sets of breathing now, two sets of rustlings and grunting and sighs. A whole new language to learn, he thought to himself as Persephone gave a tiny cry before settling again.

His mind was reeling as it struggled to come to terms with the immensity of his love for his tiny daughter, and as he lay on his side in the twilit room, gazing across the sleeping form of his future wife to the blanketed infant in the cot beside her bed, his breathing hitched and he wondered whether or not his father had felt the same way upon his own birth. Somehow he doubted it.

He found it difficult to believe that his father had ever shed a joyful tear, or felt his heart swell so large in his chest that it hurt his ribs and drew still more tears from overflowing ducts. His father had been dour and unforgiving, unemotional and calculating. His father had looked at Snape in such a way as to leave him in no doubt that there was a mental scorecard in his head against which he would never make the grade.

And yet, and yet…he remembered a particularly harsh winter and a tall, smiling man who helped him build a snowman, and lifted him up on his shoulders afterwards so that he could reach the lower branches of the trees in the family's orchard and shake off the snow until they were both covered in it and overcome by laughter.

But he remembered better the way he had felt after Caius had usurped him, when the only smiles that came his way were accompanied by harsh laughter and sneers and disappointed stares were the expected reaction to anything he did. How could his father not have experienced this incredible outpouring of love? And if he had felt it, at first, what had happened for it to wither and die as soon as Caius had arrived? And the worst of it was that their father had died before Snape was able to see whether or not the same withdrawal of affection would eventually have happened with Caius. Consequently, the resentment had festered and the fear of rejection had closed the young man in on himself, and the result of his withdrawal had been far reaching and terrible.

He had resented Caius so much that the imaginary knife he felt twist in his gut every time he remembered, rusty now after years of neglect, still cut deep and painful. He had loved his brother but had grown to hate him. He had felt protectiveness for him that had turned to a compulsion to reject him, to drive him as far away as he possibly could. He had done these things so thoroughly that it had been several years since he had seen his brother, despite the fact that each was now the other's only living relative. He did not even know where Caius was living any more, he realised. That shocked him, and he frowned into the darkness. By the same token, Caius would have no way of knowing that he had met Ella, and that he had fathered a child. Caius' niece. He ought to make the effort to find him, he supposed, and let him know.

He forgot all about his brother in the hectic days that followed Persephone's birth. He took his family home to Hogwarts as soon as was humanly possible, away from the grating efficiency of the hospital staff and the complete lack of privacy and dignity that such establishments seemed to accept so readily and even wore like a badge of pride.

He had, of course, reckoned without the equally disturbing tendency of their so-called friends to show as blatant a disregard for their privacy as the staff at St Mungo's. They Apparated on to the front lawn at Hogwarts only to find a most unwelcome welcoming committee on the steps. His baby had seemed to inherit her mother's dislike of Apparation and was squalling in a most distressed fashion, and all that they could do was make an amused observation that she was just like her father. Then the whole troupe had followed them down to their own private quarters, and insisted they be invited in to 'wet the baby's head'. Of course, none of this was done overtly, for Snape would have been able to decline any direct requests with his usual alacrity. No, this bonhomie was done by stealth, as if all concerned agreed that it was quite acceptable behaviour, and so how could Snape, as a reasonable man, find anything about which to object?

He settled Ella comfortably on one of the new sofas she had ordered in his absence, and took her hand between his on to his lap as he sat beside her. He had never been able to prevail where Albus Dumbledore was concerned. Dumbledore, patriarch of the school and its student body, in recent years more a father to him than his own had ever been, had betrayed him when he had failed to take Snape's side after the incident at the Whomping Willow and in turn he had let the old man down when he had joined Lucius Malfoy as one of the Dark Lord's cohorts. Both sides had spent the years since the Potters' deaths trying to make amends but their relationship would always resemble that of an angry adolescent trying to outmanoeuvre a kindly but firm aged parent. Snape knew that however objectionable he made himself, Dumbledore would remain in glorious denial, taking no notice of his complaint until he himself deemed it time to leave. All that Snape could do was resign himself to the intrusion and suffer in silence.

His patience was rewarded, and after around half an hour the new family was left in peace, to remain undisturbed for three blissful, exhausting days. He found during that time that he barely slept; or at least that was how it seemed. Persephone was a cooperative child as long as her every demand was answered swiftly, and he noticed that Ella chose to sleep when her baby slept, napping for odd hours in the day and sleeping soundly all night apart from when Persephone had to be fed. He, on the other hand, could not sleep. His wakefulness did not send him striding along the soothing corridors as before, searching for diversion from his thoughts in the form of curfew-breaking students; everything he needed with which to surround himself was within the walls of his own private quarters. Instead, he lay awake while Ella slumbered at his side, their limbs entwined in a relaxed yet needful embrace, and he listened for his new baby's signs of life, and learnt to anticipate her awakening. Or, he would extricate himself from the tangle of limbs and get up, standing over the crib to watch Persephone's fingers curl into fists and her shock of black hair darken still more in the grey of the moon.

Unable to summon the energy to dress correctly, let alone attend to any work, each day slid into the next and after two days at home he would find himself waking suddenly on the sofa, stiff necked and disoriented, having fallen asleep unintentionally while watching Ella nurse their child. He needed to get a grip on himself. Enamoured though he was, it would not do for his family to so comprehensively disrupt his life that he could no longer function in his usual fashion. Fortunately, on the third day he was offered the best possible incentive to pull himself together, and that incentive was called Hermione Granger.

She breezed into his private rooms with an easy familiarity he found most unwelcome. In his irritation at the disturbance he forgot his state of undress and she had the nerve to glance down at his half-opened dressing gown as she greeted him. He drew it around himself and glared at her before retreating to the bedroom. He heard her inane chatter through the closed door, which he locked as a precaution, and scowled as he threw the dressing gown on to the bed. Ella laughed at whatever it was she had said, and their voices faded slightly as they moved to sit down. He dressed slowly and angrily, unwilling to participate in the conversation but realising that his presence would, with any luck, curtail her visit, so after a few minutes he re-entered the living room. His tactic was mostly successful but before she left she reminded them that the Potter boy was celebrating his maturity with a party that night. He rolled his eyes but knew from his wife's enthusiastic reaction that there would be no escape.

"What was all that about?" Ella asked after Hermione had been ushered out.

"I don't like being forced to be sociable!" he replied.

"Well, I know _that_, love!" She smiled, and nuzzled his cheek until his frown disappeared. "But why are you dressed so formally?"

"I just didn't feel comfortable with her here. In our home. I'm her teacher!"

"You _were_her teacher," she reminded him gently, but he was not to be dissuaded so easily from his complaint.

"Until only a couple of weeks ago. And I know she's your friend, but...it's all too _familiar_!"

"You'll get used to it, love. Look at you and me! You unwound with me, didn't you?"

"I had rather more of an incentive in your case!" he commented, running his hand underneath her Muggle tee shirt to stroke her bare back. Ella ought to have the sensitivity to realise the difference, he thought to himself. However, her next words disarmed him completely. 

"Well, get used to being sociable tonight - look on it as practice for next week, we'll be the centre of attention all day!"

His heart lurched in his chest. "Five more days and we'll be married," he said wonderingly, and suddenly a dry run seemed like it might be a good idea.

He had not expected to see his brother again. He had had vague intentions of getting in touch with him eventually, at some point, but he had to be honest with himself and admit that he would not have bothered to invite him to his wedding, had Ella and the Headmaster not intervened. Caius reminded him of his past, a past he wanted nothing more than to forget.

His heart had sunk when he saw Caius stride across the Great Hall as he gatecrashed Potter's party. His younger brother had matured considerably in the years since he had seen him last, and Snape had to admit that he cut a fine figure. He could almost hear the whispered comments from behind the backs of hands, the imagined words echoing from the vaulted ceiling and amplifying until he was deafened by them;

"What, is that the Greasy Git's _brother_?"

"You mean he has a _family_? Who'd have thought?"

"He's _gorgeous_! Nothing like Snape, is he?"

"_I think Ella chose the wrong Snape, didn't she_?"

He had watched as Potter and the Weasley tribe had allowed him to ingratiate himself with them and only Ella's obvious preference for his own company had prevented his sourness from spoiling the many anecdotes he found spilling from his mouth, much to her delight. And he had admitted to himself that Ella's little hormone-induced tantrum, after their ad hoc meeting with the Headmaster when Ella had mentioned her suspicions about Rita Skeeter, had done much to bolster his flagging self-esteem.

After the meeting, during which Ella had divulged her most perceptive theory that Skeeter might be harbouring the Malfoys and Voldemort, she had become strangely withdrawn and had descended the slowly spiralling staircase in silence. Curious, he had questioned her and she had burst into tears. He had hidden a smirk as he enfolded her in his arms and congratulated himself on his indispensability.

As he held her close he remembered the conversation he had had a few weeks before, when Madam Pomfrey had taken him to one side after dinner one evening in order to impress upon him the importance of sensitivity to Ella's moods after the baby was born.

"Now listen to me, Severus," she had said, glancing furtively over his shoulder to see Ella standing with Remus Lupin and Hermione Granger, deep in conversation. "I do hope you're going to be sensitive to Ella's needs, after the baby's born!"

"What do you mean, sensitive to her needs?" he had replied sharply, glaring at her. "When am I ever anything but?"

"Well, if you don't mind my saying so, Severus dear, you were less than perceptive after Christmas when she was – well, when she was getting so confused."

He folded his arms and drew himself up to his full height, but Madam Pomfrey was unaffected.

"She's a slave to her hormones, that one!" she continued primly. "And unless you show her a little understanding in the days after the birth, you'll store up no end of trouble for yourself!"

"Meaning?" he growled, trying to conceal his perturbation. What was he supposed to do? He fisted his hands at his sides as he resisted the urge to grab her by the shoulders and ask "_What should I do?"_

"Meaning, she's quite likely to get a bit weepy, of course!" she scolded. "She'll need your understanding, and your reassurance," she continued, looking at him dubiously.

He breathed a sigh of relief. He could cope with a few tears every now and then, as long as Ella wasn't about to run off to France again.

Consequently, he knew exactly what to do when she refused to take his hand as they reached the foot of the stairs and berated him for supposedly offering to go after Malfoy and Voldemort again.

"Hah!" he said, delighted at his own perceptiveness. "Well, well! Poppy _told_me this might happen! Fascinating! She _warned_me you'd probably be a textbook case, knowing your history!"

"What?"

"Oh, Ella, love!" he cajoled, moving one hand up to cup her face. "You and your blasted hormones! Look, I _understand_this time! I'm here!"

"Don't patronize me! You were going to go off again!"

"To the Ministry, and then back home again, that was all! I've got a wedding to go to in a few days, and the bride would _kill_me if I missed it!"

She burst into tears, and in a perverse way he was quite gratified that he could use kind words equally as well as cruel ones to reduce another to tears. He felt a twinge of guilt at such a thought but assuaged it quickly by pulling her into a soothing embrace.

"Oh, come here! You're over-reacting! You appear to be suffering from what I believe is known as the 'baby blues', Ella. That's all this is!" his matter-of-fact tone concealing a secret glee.

"_All_?"

"You'll get through it! Just let it all out!"

"Why do you have to be so bloody understanding?"

His mouth quirked. "Would you rather I tore you to shreds with my cutting tongue?" he asked dryly.

"_Yes_!"

 "Well, much as I hate to disappoint you, I'm afraid this time my heart just wouldn't be in it!"

He pressed her close to him with one hand against the small of her back, his fingers making small circling motions there, while with the other he stroked her hair. Once her sniffles stopped he sighed in satisfaction. He had done well. He made a mental note to thank Pomfrey at some point.

"Let's go back to the Great Hall and get our baby, and we can all go home. Hmm?"

She nodded vigorously into his chest and he chuckled softly.

"Here, I'd better tidy you up a bit. People will think I've been cruel to you."

"Since when did you care what people thought of you?"

"Hmm." That was very true, but she would appreciate his sensitivity and his efforts to care for her, and that was all that really mattered.

Spending the remainder of the evening in the company of not only his brother but Potter and his cronies as well was enough to severely test his neglected social skills. Caius and the erstwhile banes of his life – the werewolf, too, - told a succession of anecdotes which confirmed Snape's worst suspicions of the lot of them. He sat back in his seat and tolerated their prattle as best he could, for he sensed that it was important to Ella that they stay for a while. Poppy Pomfrey had been quite explicit about the sort of care and attention Ella would need following Persephone's birth, and social interaction with her peers was high on the list, apparently. If Ella felt she wanted to socialise, then he was duty bound to grit his teeth and join her.

After a few large goblets of claret he forgot to scowl, and felt obliged to join in the conversation. Caius seemed to have an unrealistically florid recollection of certain childhood events and Snape took an ever increasing delight in putting the record straight, much to the amusement of everyone present. It was so gratifying to see his words greeted with laughter instead of stony, silent acquiescence that he almost forgot that most of the people gathered around their small table had been heartily despised students mere weeks before. His arm was slung casually around Ella's neck and he played with the soft curls below her ear without realising what such an intimate gesture revealed, and by the time she had kissed him in front of everybody he really did not care.

As he lay awake that night waiting for sleep, he realised that he was inordinately pleased to see Caius again.

The following day he had sole charge of his tiny daughter for the first time. He had insisted that Ella go to see Madam Pomfrey for the reassurance he knew she would take from it, which meant that as her other parent, Persephone was his responsibility. He waved away Ella's concerns dismissively, but as soon as he had returned with her to the dungeons and found himself alone with his daughter his throat constricted with apprehension and by the time he had changed her nappy beads of sweat were shining on his brow.

The sense of responsibility was overwhelming. He had taken whole classes of dunderheads and prevented them from blowing themselves up. He was the only person he knew who could consistently brew batches of Wolfsbane of faultless quality. He had been responsible for brewing some of the most lethal potions known to man. He had risked his life on innumerable occasions while acting as spy for Albus Dumbledore and feeding misinformation to the most evil wizard of the last millennium. The task now before him was surely well within his capabilities. All he had to do was keep his daughter safe, dry, clean and warm, and make sure she was fed.

He decided to take Persephone for her stroll earlier than had been discussed. He would perhaps bump into the Headmaster, or Minerva, if he was lucky. Even Professor Sprout, or Madam Hooch; he was fairly certain that, as women, they would have some latent instinct that they could bring into play. And Hagrid's motley collection of creatures all seemed to thrive, so if all else failed he could take a stroll across the lawns to his hut.

Persephone did not seem to mind the haste with which she was bundled back into her pushchair, and she did not object to the speed at which she was swept along the corridors. The Transfigurations classroom was the closest, he thought, and Minerva's office adjoined it. He cursed when he realised her office door was locked and that there were no signs of life within. Where the devil was she? Surely she didn't have any pressing engagements to take her from her work? He ran his hands through his hair with a heavy sigh, and peered into the pushchair. Persephone was awake, and she was looking at him with curiosity, but at least she was not crying and for that he could be thankful.

He was halfway to Albus Dumbledore's office when he realised there was no way he would be able to get the pushchair up the spiral staircase. The old man had warded the area around the staircase so that it would repel all attempts at magic and without a Levitation charm he would have to lift her out of the pushchair and leave it at the foot of the staircase. And, of course, she had chosen to go to sleep! How absolutely typical, he thought bitterly, until he realised that her slumber was the best thing that could happen, for if she was asleep then she was not making inarticulate demands of him that he feared he would not understand. Relieved and feeling rather foolish, he decided to head directly for Godric's Seat, where he could try to relax and await Ella's return with some semblance of equanimity.

He had regained his composure by the time he sensed Ella's approach, and was able to toss out a casual comment over his shoulder.

"You've been ages! I think _she's_waking up."

Ella would believe that he had coped admirably without her. She would know what a wonderful father he would be to their daughter.  A far better one than his own father had been to him. In fact, the more he thought about it as she slipped her arms around his neck from behind, he _had_coped admirably. He had had sole charge of his daughter for well over an hour, and had needed no help from anybody else. With a smug, contented sigh, he breathed in the scent of jasmine and looked over the lake, across to the place where he would be wed.

                                                                                 ***

He had woken in Ella's arms on the morning of his wedding. She had had some stupid idea that it was bad luck for the bride and groom to see one another before the ceremony, a notion put into her head the night before by the meddlesome Miss Granger, and so he had left her outside the staffroom door breathless and craving more of his touch after a scorching kiss of which he felt justifiably proud. He had known she would not last the night without him, and he felt immensely satisfied that once again she had proved him right. They had not made love, but by the Fates, they had done the next best thing. He remembered with exquisite clarity the sensation of her velvety mouth wrapped around him the night before, the ferocity of the summer storm drowning out their cries.

And then later, when he had returned to his chambers warmed through by the smile she had given him upon waking, he had performed all the necessary ablutions and preparations with a rather tuneless humming that he realised with no little surprise came from his own lips.

As he had begun to button the quicksilver grey shirt that was part of his wedding wardrobe, there was an apologetic knock at the door. He recognised it instantly.

"What is it, Lupin?" he demanded as he strode across and flung open the door. The werewolf wore his usual ingratiating smile but not even that could dampen Snape's spirits that morning. Turning on his heel, he made a brusque gesture inviting Lupin to follow him inside.

"I just came along to make sure you weren't having any second thoughts!"

Snape snorted.

"You are _so_amusing, Remus!"

"It has been said," came the cheerful retort. "No, I just wondered whether you needed a hand getting dressed, you know, fastening all those buttons, brushing your hair…"

Snape raised an eyebrow and gave him a hard stare.

"I think I can manage, thanks. Now why are you _really_here?"

"Oh, come on, Severus! It's your wedding day, everyone needs a bit of support on their wedding day!"

"I see no reason why," he shrugged. "But since you're here, you can tell me how the preparations are going outside. And you can floo Pomfrey and find out how my daughter is this morning."

"Don't need to, I just came from there!" Lupin said happily. "I knew you'd be missing little Seffie – "

"_Persephone_!"

" – So I wandered along there to say hi before I came here. It's the job of the best man to anticipate the groom's every need, you know!"

"And who gave you _that_honour? _I_don't remember asking anybody to stand up with me!"

"Well, Albus suggested that you might – "

"Bloody interfering old coot!" Snape muttered, straightening the sleeves of his black damask frock coat by tugging at each cuff impatiently. He swung round to Lupin, who was perched on the arm of his wing chair looking at him expectantly, and rolled his eyes. "Oh, all right then," he said ungraciously. "Since you're here anyway it might as well be you."

"Why thank you, Severus, I would be honoured!"

"Hmph. I thought you were going to tell me how the preparations were going?"

"Fine, fine, nothing to worry about!"

"I'm not worried."

"Of course not. That's why you've straightened your sleeves four times in a row."

"Bloody hell, Lupin, did Black put you up to this? I was fine until you sloped in!" Snape grumbled, running his hand through his hair.

The werewolf's insistence on continuing ancient tradition by standing up with him was beginning to unnerve him. It was not that he did not realise the enormity of what he was about to do; he acknowledged fully the havoc it would wreak on his life, and welcomed it wholeheartedly. Nevertheless, he had fondly believed that despite the elaborate lakeside ceremony and the grand feast that would follow, the day would belong to him and his bride; but no. There would be hordes of people and ex students present too, smiling and laughing and enjoying themselves, and interrupting his appreciation of his own wedding day. Worse still, all attention would be on the two of them, and he would be put under enormous pressure to be pleasant. His left hand reached once more for his right sleeve and he cursed as he forced himself to stop.

"So, are you ready, then?" Lupin asked ingenuously.

"I'm more than ready to wed," Snape said with feeling before admitting "It's being a public spectacle that bothers me!"

Lupin stood, and clapped Snape on the shoulder.

"You'll forget about all of that as soon as you set eyes on her, Severus. Everyone else will simply disappear."

A mawkish comment like that deserved a sneer at the very least and preferably a withering comment to go with it, but Snape settled for a hard stare into Lupin's boyishly sincere face because after all, it was probably the most perceptive comment he had ever heard the werewolf make.

He flew across the lake alone. He insisted on it. By the time he and Lupin had reached the observation platform at the top of the Astronomy Tower he felt sick with nerves and he fervently wished that he had had the foresight to prepare a vial of potion against that eventuality, as he had done for Ella. His heart beat harder in his chest as he thought of her, wondering when she would find it and whether she would smile at his messages. The enchantments had been difficult for he had never been quite as adept at Charms as he was at Potions or the Dark Arts, but he had not needed to resort to seeking help from Flitwick, who would probably have dined out on the anecdote for weeks given half a chance. Only Ella's touch would make his script show itself, and her prior actions would dictate what she read. These thoughts preoccupied him as they climbed higher and although Lupin was droning on about something insignificant, Snape was not listening.

"You go on ahead, Remus. I want to take a turn around the grounds first."

"Okay, Severus. I understand," Lupin grinned. "Work up a bit of adrenaline, give those last minute nerves something to work on!"

"I am _not nervous_!" he snapped.

He did not know why Lupin had suddenly taken to clapping him on the back and he did not care for it particularly, so he was greatly relieved when Lupin mounted his broom and kicked off, rising slowly above the crenellated parapet and turning to wave at Snape before speeding off across the lawns and over the lake. Snape watched him go, seeing his reflection diminish in the glassy sunlit surface of the lake as he flew into the distance. There were guests there already, he noticed, and as he watched more could be seen arriving in the foothills, from the direction of Hogsmeade and also from the school grounds.

It would soon be time. He turned his back on the view spread out before him, and looked within the school to where he knew she would be. Seeing past all the towers and the wings and the quadrangles, the hundreds of windows, the gargoyles, the cloisters and the fountains, his mind's eye looked deep into the dungeons where Ella waited to be bound to him. His heart full, he closed his eyes for a moment and willed to her all the love he felt, before mounting his broom and kicking off.

The rush of the wind through his hair as he flew was exhilarating, and he circled the school twice before speeding off to the Quidditch pitch and back again, then down to the Forbidden Forest where the trees huddled together as if to protect themselves from the bright warmth of the summer sunlight. The air was still as he hovered over the treetops and cast his gaze back towards the school that was his home. When he returned to it, he would be wed. He let out a short, sharp laugh and banked right, speeding over to the outskirts of the forest and thence across the lake to where the wedding party was waiting.

He dismounted close to where Lupin and Black were deep in conversation with his brother.

"Sev! We were beginning to think you weren't coming!" Caius joked, holding out his hand for Snape's broom which he deposited against a steep grassy bank along with those of the guests. Snape lifted an eyebrow but did not answer, being too preoccupied with straightening his sleeves, and so Caius continued apologetically, "Just a joke, you know! She's a real catch, and she thinks the world of you, too!"

"Thank you for that accurate assessment, Caius. What would I do without you," Snape countered dryly. "Now if you'll excuse me I am going to wait for her on the jetty. I believe that is the requirement, Remus?"

"We'll wait with you," Black offered. "Keep you company."

Snape inclined his head slightly. He did not want company. He wanted to be left alone with his thoughts so that he could meditate on the step he was about to take. However, since their sojourn in Eastern Europe he had been forced into a grudging respect for Sirius Black, one which he knew was mutual, and so he felt disinclined to argue the point. He saw the familiar purple-robed figure of Albus Dumbledore from the corner of his eye and made a half turn to see the old man nod at him over the rim of his half moon spectacles with a knowing smile.

"Out of interest," he muttered to Lupin as they descended the bank to the small wooden jetty, "Is it just me, or does Albus manipulate everyone else around him too?"

The werewolf laughed. "Oh, you're not alone, I'm sure! But he certainly takes more delight in it when it's you!"

"Yes, he's always had a soft spot for you, Snape," Black added, falling into step alongside him. Snape looked at him incredulously.

"I hardly think so, Sirius!"

"Suit yourself," he shrugged. "It doesn't make it any less true."

Once on the jetty, Snape strode to its end and gazed out across the lake. He could see the elaborately gilded boat that would bring Ella to him with Hermione in attendance. Hermione was almost young enough to be Ella's daughter, he mused. She was the same age as Phoebe would have been, had she lived. Had Snape not ensured the manner of her death and then witnessed it. He shivered despite the warmth of the sun, and did not notice his brother's approach until he felt Caius' hand on his arm. Startled, he jumped away and almost reached for his wand as he turned, remembering just in time that where he was and why he was there precluded any possible danger.

"Severus, I just wanted to say…I'm sorry. For everything." Snape frowned slightly, puzzled, so Caius continued, "I don't just mean letting Ella get taken again, or knackering that photo frame with her parents' picture in it. I mean…well, everything. All of it. I must have been a bit of a pain. When I was younger."

Eight years and a lifetime of bitterness stood between Snape and his brother, while eighteen and the veil of death separated Ella from Phoebe. Perhaps it was time for him to start appreciating Caius, while he still could. He remembered Ella's wise words of a few days before, when she had told him he was lucky Caius was still around. Snape looked his brother in the eye, probing him, and wondered what on earth to say.

"Yes, you were," he said finally. "And you haven't changed, either. But – that doesn't mean to say that I'm sorry you're here."

Caius smiled at him, and the relief he exuded washed over Snape in waves of warmth. Quickly Snape withdrew, but held out his hand. Caius took it and that brief contact, the first that Snape had instigated in years, did more to heal the scars of their relationship than mere words could. Snape gave a stiff smile in return and then it was over and Remus was murmuring,

"Nearly time, Severus. Albus says she's on her way through the school now."

Snape's stomach lurched.

Minutes passed. Caius, Lupin and Black made small talk, but his monosyllabic responses soon gave way to distracted grunts and after a while he failed to acknowledge them at all. He was too focussed on the castle, squinting against the sunlight to try to catch a first glimpse of her as she descended the steps on to the lawn. Eventually they withdrew discreetly, and he waited alone.

A glimmer of white and another of richest red, unmistakeably Ella and Hermione. His world fell away then and he held his breath, advancing the few steps to the edge of the jetty, poised on the brink, wanting to fly to her side. There was nothing else, and he willed her to hurry to him, impatient now having waited for so long. She stepped into the boat and slipped off her cloak, letting it fall. He caught his breath as she shook out her hair, festooned with flowers and cascading over her shoulders. She was clad in a shimmering fabric whose iridescence caught the sun and seemed to imprison it within its softly draping folds, showing first blue, then silver, then green. He understood her meaning and rejoiced in it, for today she would truly be his, in every way, and it was fitting that her dress symbolise their union.

As the boat made its exceedingly slow way across the millpond lake, their eyes stayed locked each on the other and his heart pounded against his ribs with relentless fervour as if demanding to be set free of its confines so that it could soar to meet hers. A soft blue nimbus of light grew all around her as she approached, ethereal and mystical. At last the boat pulled up to the jetty, gliding silently to a stop, and he swallowed hard as he held out his hand to her. Blue lightning flashed from her fingertips to his and back again as they touched, a visible manifestation of the power that surrounded and filled them this day. He had never seen its like before, could not imagine any other couple having felt this way although logically he supposed they must; but then she spoke, and with that special way she had of filling all of his senses at once, she overwhelmed him and all that he could do was exhort her not to.

"What, no smile for me, Severus? Today, of all days?"

"I can't allow myself the luxury of a smile, Ella, today of all days," he said unsteadily. "If I smile I may never stop and at this precise moment I don't think I could endure the joy."

"Oh!" she gasped, and broke out into a radiant smile. He allowed himself a small, quick smile in return and warned,

"_Don't_!" He raised her hands to his lips and kissed them, feeling the tingle of magic flicker across his lips as blue light danced across her palms, and then took a deep breath. "Come on, you promised to marry me. Though why such a beautiful faerie creature should want to will always be beyond me..."

"Shh! Make me yours!" she urged.

The longing to wrap his arms around her and crush her to him was almost more than he could bear. He had wanted this so much that now the time had come to bind himself to her for ever more he found himself rooted to the spot, too much in love to make that last step, too desirous of holding on to the exquisite bliss of the moment. He let out a long shuddering breath, closing his eyes briefly, and let her lead him to the place where Doctor Firkin and their guests waited.

Their marriage saw him reborn. The magical binding ceremony was an experience he had never thought to have, and one that he had never witnessed before. He had been forewarned both by Albus and by Doctor Firkin that the magic in the air would heighten the impact of the ceremony but he had dismissed their words for the most part because he already knew the depth and the breadth and the height of his love for Ella, and was fully cognisant of the effect her love had on him. He had been wrong to do so, however, because the elation he felt was indescribable. From the moment their hands touched at the jetty every part of his body and his soul sang his joy. Their vows, their kisses, their dreamlike slow sail back across the lake to the school; the insistent tugging in his chest as his heart ached to claim her and withdraw with her to the dungeons, his impatience to start his new life with her; all these things were added one by one to the cauldron of emotion that threatened to bubble over every time she smiled.

Afterwards, when he danced with her after their wedding feast and discovered that her post partum healing process had been accelerated and that they would therefore be consummating their union that very evening, he had felt that his life had been turned around completely. It was fitting that the very same ointment that he himself had devised to heal the worst of Voldemort's abuses was allowing him finally to bury his past. He felt a quiet calm come over him, and while he was impatient to carry her off to the dungeons he was also glad of the  of the public duty that was the reception, for his emotions had been too profound and he needed some respite from the euphoria he had enjoyed all that day.

He had had no idea that when he did finally get his bride alone in their chambers that she would use the residual magic that had enhanced them all day to remove his Dark Mark and strip his soul bare, reducing him and elevating him and cleansing his very spirit of the canker that had infected it for so many dark years.

Their lovemaking had been slow and very sensual, and he had been catching his breath after his climax when he had noticed the change in her. She had begun to glow blue, as if the lightning that had crackled between them all that day came from inside her, was a part of her. Then she had turned her gaze on him, twin rays of bright blue purity, and he had been terrified for a moment until he recognised the untainted love in their brightness and let it wash over him and into him, almost a physical entity entering him and scouring his soul with each incantation she spoke. It had been agonising in the extreme but he trusted her implicitly and indeed he felt powerless under her brightness, having no choice but to surrender himself completely to the blinding torture of the poultice on his arm.

It hurt, far more than even its maleficent imprinting on to his arm had hurt over twenty years before. With every word she spoke, the Mark burned more, reaching out white hot tendrils along his arm and into his chest. The pain was unbearable but still he bore it, for her, because he knew what she attempted and was in awe of her power. He knew nothing of the procedure she seemed so surely following but he sensed that her determination and her love for him were vital to its efficacy, and he was humbled by it. At length, when he had thought that he would swoon away at the last, it ended. The pain faded quickly, shrinking into itself and disappearing with a pinprick on his forearm, and when he looked there was nothing left save for pure white flesh.

She had been straddling him, but as the blue light dimmed and her anxious green eyes searched his face, her tears began to fall and she sank on to his chest, drained. Eventually she got up and helped him sit on the side of the bed. He bowed his head, for he could not speak.

He felt clean, and numb, and somehow empty. The Dark Mark had been a part of him for more than half his lifetime. He had wanted rid of it for almost as long. He had spoken to Dumbledore, and even to Ella, of the searing pain of Voldemort's call, but he had disclosed to no-one the desperate addiction of the magical caress that rewarded a swift apparition to the master's side, when the agony was replaced by the guilty pleasure of triumphant release, and accompanied always by the cloying attar of decay. He would never know that twisted gratification again, and even though he was free at last of the hated shackles of his past misdeeds, still he grieved.

How could he tell her that she had given him his heart's desire, in every way, and yet a part of him regretted the achievement? She would not understand, for how could she when he could not understand it himself? His hair concealed his expression from her view as he bent his head and watched his thumb as it rubbed slowly over the unsullied flesh that had been the Dark Mark's home for long, bitter years. She allowed him his privacy and he loved her all the more for it. It was a wondrous thing that she had done and as his mind at last regained a little of its former clarity he asked quietly,

"Gruber?"

"Yes."

She had found something, while he had been away, perhaps. Something that he himself, in his desperation to find salvation, had missed. She had kept it a secret from him.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"You hadn't to know. The instructions were very clear."

He nodded slowly, and a deep, shuddering sigh wracked his body. From what little he knew of his predecessor's methods and eccentricities he could quite believe it.

"The feather…Albus knew about this?"

"I had to tell him. I needed Fawkes. But he knew anyway. He knew long before I did."

He wondered vaguely how much of the last twenty years or more had been part of the old wizard's grand plan, and how much left to the Fates, but then bewilderment and amazement overtook him once more and he sank inside himself, spiralling round, unable to comprehend what had happened.

"You should speak to him now," he managed to say.

"Are you sure, love?"

"I'd like him to know."

He allowed Ella to take his chin in her hand and lift his face so that she could kiss him, but then withdrew into himself as she spoke to the Headmaster by floo. Once they were alone again he got to his feet, feeling drained and as unsteady as a babe taking its first steps. He knelt at his redeemer's feet and laid his head on her knees. He was a child again, reborn and cleansed.

 "You _will_be fine, won't you?" she asked anxiously.

"I feel…I feel…_clean_!"

He had cried then. Stoic, indeed unfeeling, in public, the private man had shed tears before on occasion, notably at Dumbledore's feet when seeking sanctuary from the Dark Lord  and on Dumbledore's shoulder when Ella had left him. These tears were different, for they were not the centred tears of selfishness but the healing tears of a much needed catharsis and came hot on the heels of those shed at Persephone's birth, and earlier that very day as he became wed.

When at last they had all been shed and dried he felt reborn and he knew that he owed all of it to his new wife. Climbing up to sit beside her, watching the dawn as he held her in his arms, he resolved that he would never, ever let her go and he would devote his life to finding ways to thank her.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

Thanks to everyone who has reviewed so far. It's good to know that people are enjoying it. There are just two more chapters to go.


	26. Revelation

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

I apologise for the delay in posting this penultimate chapter…I think that, perhaps, I don't want to let this story go! I do hope you enjoy it too. 

Warning; disturbing in parts.

****

**Chapter 26**

**Revelation**

****

Marriage to Severus suited Ella. He fulfilled her in every way; in far more ways than she would have thought possible before she met him. Emotionally, familially, sexually, intellectually, he was everything she had ever wanted and more besides. His company was a craving he was eager to satisfy and she was a happy woman. He sat at her side on the ancient stone bench, its hard corners softened by the passage of time and the ravages of countless storms, and it seemed to her that both were akin to the very soul of the school, outwardly solid and stiff of appearance but the most welcoming place in the world for those fortunate enough to be granted access.

She looked straight ahead, over to the foothills where they had taken their vows, but he was there, an overpowering presence at her side, visible from the corner of her eye. _Always there_, she thought happily, _a constant part of her perception_. His hair blew across his face as the light breeze caught it and played with it, but his hands remained on his knees, one of hers enclosed tightly within his grasp. 

"There were times," he began, "when I thought we would never reach this point."

"I know. When you went off to Europe and I was left behind to plan the wedding…I dreaded that you'd never come back to me."

She felt him sigh and lean in to her and she edged closer to him, feeling suddenly cold at the memory. He released her hand and slipped his arm around her shoulders, turning to her and taking her chin with his free hand to tilt her face up to his. His lips brushed across hers and she closed her eyes, savouring their warmth and his vibrancy. His hair blew across her cheek and they parted as she pushed it back from his face, watching as the wind ruffled it, glossy blue-black in the sunlight.

"I'll never leave again, Ella. You do believe that, don't you?"

She searched the depths of his eyes and said pensively,

"No, love, I don't believe it. I don't think I'll believe it until he's dead and gone, and even then I'll still dread it happening some other way."

She pressed herself to him then, snaking her arms around his shoulders and making small circular strokes around the nape of his neck, tangling his hair between her fingers and feeling heat and power radiate from him. He bent his head to hers once more but paused when their lips were just a breath apart, gazing into her eyes. She would willingly drown in those eyes, dive in and never emerge again. She held her breath as her world shrank, telescoping in on itself until all that was left was their love and that moment. A moment filled with all the possibilities of the future. She did not think that adoration was too strong a word to express how she felt about this man.

She leaned back against the arm that encircled her, sinking into his strength and letting her eyelids droop as she gave herself over to the sensation. His lips, full and slightly parted, were so close that she could feel his breath caress her mouth, and she pulled his head down to hers so that they touched. The lightest brush, and then he took her top lip between his and ran his tongue over it. Her fingers splayed in his hair as her own tongue sneaked underneath his and sought his mouth, and unconsciously she drew in a deep breath through her nose to ready herself for the depth and intensity of sharing that she knew was to come. As if her action was a trigger, his arms tightened around her and he slanted his questing lips across her yielding ones, deepening their kiss with a sigh. His hair slipped through her fingers as they embraced and long locks brushed against her cheeks sending delicious signals to her lower back, and she rejoiced in the hard fabric-covered buttons of his frock coat digging into her chest as he crushed her to him. Ah, but he tasted so sweet!

Abandoning herself to his will, she allowed him to run his hand under her thigh until it reached the curve of her buttock, grasping it and pulling her leg on to his lap as he in turn curled his body around her, pressing her back against the sun-warmed granite back of the bench.  Her heart was so full that she wanted to cry, to laugh, to crow to the skies and the Fates that this was life, this was living, this was perfection. 

Ella felt as if she would melt from sheer happiness, but he drew away after a while and she saw that his smile had been replaced by a wariness that was chilling in what she feared it represented.

"I need to tell you about what I used to do for Voldemort. And what I did to – to your parents and your sister."

"You don't have to tell me," she emphasised, knowing that she would be strong enough to hear it but dreading it all the same.

"I do," he said simply, and she made no further protestation for of course she had always known it to be true. "And when I've told you…well, then I want to know if – if you can still tell me you love me."

His eyes were deep dark oceans whose pain seemed fathomless, and she drew his head down to her breast and held him to her then, trying to show him that he need not fear. At last, she released him from her tight embrace and he ran his hand through his hair before disentangling himself from her completely. He sat ramrod straight once more, gathering his thoughts and his resolve, staring across the shifting surface of the lake. 

Knowing how difficult it would be for him to find the words he so obviously felt he needed to say, Ella gave him the emotional space he required and leaned over to their baby, just now stirring in her pushchair. Pulling back the cotton blanket that covered her, Ella lifted Persephone into her arms and kissed her, making the child gurgle happily and kick her legs. She turned to her husband and passed Persephone to him, and he took her in his arms as if she were a gift he could not believe he had.

                        ************************************************************

He had not been surprised to learn that Ella had never been back to the town of her birth to sift through her memories and lay them to rest. In her shoes, and he allowed that their lives did hold certain parallels, he would have done the same. Delving into her psyche throughout the blissful weeks since their reconciliation, he had learned much about her motivations over the sixteen years since she had lost her family. _Since he had slaughtered them_. Sixteen years she had spent running from her guilt. _Sixteen years he had wallowed in his_. 

The twenty years of memories from her family home had been distilled and decanted into a steel box twenty two feet long and fifteen wide, she had said, by second cousins she had not seen in years. She had handed over all matters financial to the family solicitor, receiving a statement of accounts, an invoice and a receipt cataloguing all the items transferred to the storage facility. She had deposited everything in Gringott's bank, she had told him, and never looked back. 

He envied her courage. Oh, some would say that she was running away, and so she was, but she had taken a leap into the unknown and shown such determination that she had repeated said leap regularly until her wandering had come to an end, at Hogwarts. _Until she had met him_. Even then, she had chosen the path more dimly lit, eschewing the neon-bright Black charisma for his own more rarefied charms.

He, on the other hand, had shown a far more cowardly, selfish brand of so-called bravery. He had kissed the Dark Lord's feet until he could physically stomach no more, and only then had he found sufficient backbone to do nothing more than come crawling back to the safe haven of his youth, replacing one arch-manipulator with another. For he no longer lied to himself, and while he recognised Albus as a force for light he was well aware that the older wizard's powers of persuasion were superior even to Riddle's. He had served the Headmaster faithfully and had resumed his place at Voldemort's side when asked, without question. And he had been a most effective spy, and he had risked his life, and he had endured more pain than Madam Pomfrey had thought any man could bear. None of these things made him brave, no matter what Dumbledore, or Shacklebolt, or Molly Weasley told him. 

And then Ella, his love, his life, had told him that she wanted to reclaim her past. She made no demands, asked for no company or help. She simply stated what would be, and he was awed by her courage. He owed it to her to share her burden, and it was the work of but a few moments for him to voice his own intent.

"Why did you leave a space on the shelves? Over there?" he had asked carefully upon their return from St Mungo's with their baby. He had noticed the empty spaces at once, and it was with a sense of foreboding that he had awaited her answer.

"For all my books. My parents' books." 

"You've never been back, have you?" he had stated, his eyes staring at a fixed point on the wall opposite.

"I've never felt strong enough to face it, love," she had replied gently. "Not until now."

His brows drew together. Where was the rancour in her tone, the festering resentment, the reproach? He would never comprehend fully the extent of her feelings for him, and he sighed.

"Have you decided when you want to go?" he asked at last, his decision surprisingly easy to make.

"Well, I had wanted to go before the wedding, but then Persephone showed up early, and…"

"We'll go next week," he had said.

"You're coming with me?"

"I don't want you to go through it alone. And – I owe it to you. And to your parents. I owe it to them to always look after you."

His eyes showed plainly the extent of his remorse, and he searched hers for her assent.

"Thank you," she had said softly, drawing them closer, and they had sat for a long time, each deep in thought.

                                                                               ***

The Muggle city that was home to the storage facility had been an unwelcome reminder of the outside world, and its decay had resembled that of the seedy street in the Eastern European town they had visited while on Malfoy's trail. Snape had felt uncomfortable walking the litter-strewn streets, not least because he understood little about the Muggle world and liked it even less. He was not in his own milieu and while he knew that he would be more than capable of keeping his new family from danger, still the responsibility weighed heavily on him as he strode along beside Ella, gripping the handle of the Pushing Chair as if Persephone's life depended on it.

He was uneasy, but he was also terrified; not of the insalubrious environment, but of Ella's past and his part in it. They kept a steady pace but inwardly each step he took was more sluggish than the last until his reluctance felt like dozens of hands clawing at his shoulders, pulling him back, whispering that he need not go, need not subject himself to such guilt for it was all in the past and he had repented long ago. It was her burden to bear, not his. Still he walked on, for he knew that the insidious voices were wrong, that while he had indeed repented he had not been redeemed, nor would he ever be, and that any burden she had, whether caused by him or not, would be shouldered by him willingly for his love for her was boundless.

Too soon, they stood before the steel door of Ella's unit and he watched as she unlocked it. Her hand was sure and steady and he marvelled at her strength of character. She had been through so much and had been afraid for so long, and yet now, because of him, so she said, she had the courage to confront her past with no qualms. She opened the door and stepped inside, illuminating the room-sized metal box by means of a switch on the inner wall a little way over the threshold. The Pushing Chair shielded him from the entrance and he gripped its handle, not wanting to enter the huge steel coffin in which Ella's childhood had been laid to rest.

"Severus? Are you coming in?" she asked. 

"Are you sure you want me to?" he replied hoarsely. "I feel it would be…an intrusion."

The light from the single bare bulb that dangled from the ceiling had cast her face into shadow, but as she approached him once more he could see the concern in her eyes, and her voice was gentle as she said,

"You still feel so guilty, don't you?" 

"How can I not? I'll feel guilty for the rest of my life!"

"Then make amends! Come in, and share this with me! Please?" 

She slipped her arm around his waist as she spoke and buried her nose in the wide lapels of his long black overcoat. His arms closed around her reflexively, needing her reassurance, and he pressed his mouth against the top of her head. After a while, he released her and together they pushed Persephone into the room. 

He had thought himself inured to suffering before he met her, his own included, but as he entered the room by her side and began to remove the dust sheets that made phantasms of her past he had to accept, once again, that she made him _feel_. For many years he had enfolded his guilt into himself, wrapping it in a layer of aloofness and protecting it with an impenetrable armour of sarcasm and ill temper. It was always there, a part of him that few people could see, and he had preferred it that way, until he had met her. Now, he was stripped bare before everything that she was and that she represented, and there was nowhere he could hide. Everything was brought back to the surface now, and as the white ticking was pulled off and folded magically into neat piles, revealing Ella's life by degrees, so little by little his disquiet grew until he thought he could almost feel the reproach emanate from the cartons and the couches, the tables and the rolled up tapestries.

Once everything was visible, Ella took a moment to circle round, taking it all in. He glanced at her from beneath hooded lids, hardly daring to note her reaction to the emotional impact he assumed such a sight would have on her. She wore a slight frown, as if everything was not as it should be, or perhaps not as she had expected; and he looked away, busying himself with Persephone's blanket because that was something of his, from his world, and he needed to anchor himself. He heard her sigh, and reach out to a large boxful of framed Muggle photographs. He helped her take it down, and on her invitation sat down beside her on a large, comfortable sofa.

He tried not to think of the obvious indentations in its seats and by whom they had been made. Instead he racked his brains trying to recall whether or not it had been a feature in any of the tens of Muggle lounges he had seen when, as a Death Eater, he had gone from house to house and from murder to murder as Lord Voldemort's hired assassin. His mind drew a blank, of course. He had been far too busy noting the effects of his creations on the unfortunate victims to pay attention to the décor. He suppressed a shudder and gave Ella his full attention.

The first photograph she took out was of her parents on their wedding day, and he felt a pang as he looked at their smiling faces, wondering at Ella's resemblance to her mother and what they would think if they knew of her own choice. Next came a photograph of Ella herself in her best Ravenclaw dress robes, taken, he presumed, on the day of the Leaving Feast. She would have been eighteen. Her image smiled at them and waved and the Ella beside him gave a small laugh.

 "I remember that day so well. I had my University place all sorted out, and a couple of my friends were going with me, but I was still so upset to be leaving Hogwarts."

The next photograph was of Phoebe, Ella's baby sister. Ella had described her to him before, and he had had a hazy recollection of a golden haired child choking to death on her mother's knee. An angel. Ella said nothing as she looked at the photograph, this one a Muggle one that did not move, much to his relief, but he saw the depth of her sorrow and turned to her, taking her swiftly into his embrace.

"I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."

After a while her tears slowed and she put the photograph to one side with a heartfelt sigh, taking out a large magical picture of her family. Snape's gut twisted as if there was a knife there, plunged in to the hilt. He recognised the family and there was no more room for doubt. The child was a little older, her mass of curls falling farther down her back than on the previous photograph, and he could tell from Ella's reaction that it was probably one of the last they had had taken together.

"See how young I look!" she whispered.

So young, and oblivious of the hand that life was shortly to deal her. He could not speak, merely held her to him a little more closely.

"The years have been more than kind to you, love," he murmured at last. What else could he say? What good would it do, when she knew already that he regretted it all so strongly that its stain on his soul would linger for all of his life? 

She began to pick out framed photographs one at a time, explaining to Snape what they were, when they were taken and what memories they evoked, and then did the same with the many photograph albums that bowed the box's sides. He said little, allowing her the catharsis of reminiscence and rendered dumb with regret. If only he had never succumbed to Riddle's siren song, if only his family had never looked on the Malfoys as their passport to society, if only his parents had kept on loving him. If only he had never been born.

The contrast between Ella's childhood and his own seemed so extreme as to be beyond belief. She, seven years his junior, growing up so happy and carefree, fresh faced for her first day at Hogwarts while he, a graduate, was being seduced in more than one sense by the dark attraction of Lord Voldemort. She, Phoebe's age, laughing and playing in a meadow full of flowers as her doting parents looked on while he watched a one-year-old Caius being dandled on his mother's knee and knew that he had lost her love. She, curled up on a window seat and engrossed in a book surrounded by the usual paraphernalia of a teenaged girl; he, alone in his darkened room, zapping flies with his wand and listening to angry voices in a room below while his brother shouted and ran around outside, heedless of the adult drama being played out within.

What had he done, to be such a disappointment? Had he not been a dutiful son? An assiduous student? A competent, if reluctant, elder brother? He had scoffed at some of his more pampered fellow students and their doting families but the longer he remained at Hogwarts the more he realised that it was he, not they, that formed the insignificant minority. And Ella was of their ranks, not his. He wondered what she would think of him, if she knew. She might despise him and assume that he should be held responsible for the emotional shortcomings of his family; or even worse, she might judge his emotional development to be so stunted as to be beyond improvement. She would be wrong, though, for he loved her so fiercely that he could no longer envisage life without her. He had suffered more than he had ever thought possible at her hands and yet he had found sufficient hope in his heart to forgive her, and to give himself to her incontrovertibly. He loved her enough to subject himself to this examination of her life and of his culpability, because she wanted him to be there. So he sat and he held her close, and he listened to her life and filed each of her memories away in his mind, for her.

When all the photographs and albums had been seen at last and stacked in neat piles at their feet, she began to cry in earnest, her tears multiplying from the occasional large droplet that would fall from her cheek on to the pages on her lap into a torrent of anguish and loss. He weathered the storm of her sorrow and suppressed his own, for she needed his strength. She had lost so much, far more than he had ever comprehended, and all of it was his fault.

At last her tears stopped, and she relaxed into his arms finding comfort there. He leaned forward to take a photograph that Ella had placed lovingly on top of one of the piles at their feet. It was the family group, their last one together. They sat and gazed at it for a long time until Ella said, 

"Thank you for coming here with me today. For helping me."

There was no recrimination in her tone. There was only love, but he wondered how that could be and his mouth twisted bitterly as he replied,

"Under the circumstances it was the least I could do!" 

"Oh, Severus, don't be like that! Don't you see how you've helped me come to terms with it?"

"How can you say that, when I'm the cause?"

"Love, no! We've been through all this, I forgave you for your part in this a long time ago!"

"But I didn't forgive myself, Ella! I – I can't!"

"_Then let us_…"

The spectral voice was little more than a whisper but it crashed into Snape's awareness like a thunderclap across a barren landscape, filling him with foreboding and the promise of a tempest to follow. He heard Ella croak,

"Dad?" and felt himself shrink inside until the very essence of him condensed into a tight knot of apprehension, for surely no good could come of this encounter. His jaw clenched tight, he cast his gaze about the room to try and find the source of the words. Soon he discerned a grey swirling mist that shimmered before them and gradually coalesced into three distinct shapes that filled his heart with awe and cold dread. There could be no doubt that he had seen them before.

Ella's mother spoke next, her warm voice so like Ella's that it sent a shiver racing along his spine.

"_Hush, Ella, it's alright!_" she soothed as Ella gripped his hand, sobs hitching in her throat. He in turn still embraced her and while he knew his fingers would leave a mark on the tender flesh of her shoulder he could not let her go, particularly when her sister Phoebe chimed in, her childish voice piping,

"_Eya! Eya!_" and causing Ella to cry uncontrollably, reaching out to her family even though they were as insubstantial as a memory. He had to know how much they had heard of their conversation; indeed, he wondered how long they had waited and watched before this manifestation. It was not unheard of for ghosts to watch over their loved ones for years, lifetimes even, unable to release themselves completely from the shackles of the corporeal life and pass on to the next. 

"Are you here? Have you been here all the time?" Snape asked haltingly.

"_No_," replied Ella's mother, turning a warm, radiant smile on to him that made him flinch for it was far more than he deserved from her. "_We have been in another place, but we always knew our daughter would need to say goodbye to us one day. And today, we heard her call_."

"Oh, Mum!"

"_Shh, shh. Don't grieve for us any more. You have a future. You have a beautiful daughter, and you have a man who loves you more than life itself. You are blessed, my darling._"

"But I – I was responsible for your deaths!" Snape interjected. Surely she could not mean it, and yet ghosts were unable to lie. 

" – _And have spent all the years since trying to atone, and never more than now,_" rejoined her father solemnly. Snape looked at his insubstantial form, amazed. Yes, he had repented and had spent years castigating himself for his past mistakes, but he deserved neither forgiveness nor redemption, least of all when it was offered by his victims. "_We have come to know things written in the moon and the stars,_" her father continued. "_We are cognisant of the turning of the world and the unfolding of the seasons. And we know that this is meant to be_."

"_You will look after our daughter, Severus Snape_," Ella's mother repeated. "_We know this to be true, and we love you for it._"

He shook his head slowly in disbelief. They should hate him. They should tell Ella that he would never be worthy of her love, that she was betraying their memory by loving him.

"How can this be?" he asked.

"_Accept what is, Severus. Embrace it, for it is your salvation and your future_."

Shivers coursed through him and he could no longer trust himself to speak.

"Mum – Dad – I've missed you so much!" Ella whispered, tears coursing down her cheeks and dropping on to their hands, entwined on her knee.

"_We know, sweetheart, and we've wept for your sorrow. But we rejoice in your joy. It's your time to be happy, now_ – "

"Oh, I _am_!"

" – _With only _fond_ memories of the past_."

One by one the shades lengthened and became so insubstantial that they were barely there.

"_Bye bye Eya_!" Phoebe waved, the beaming smile on her angelic face wrenching Snape's heart until he thought it would break, especially when he heard Ella's desperate plea, 

"No, don't go! Not yet!"

Ella's mother was the last to disappear, and she lingered for long enough to give a cold, yet tingling kiss on each of their foreheads before she too disappeared with a whispered,

"_Be happy, my darling_…"

The kiss was electrifying. Snape had been shivering with mingled fear and wonder throughout, but the soft brush of insubstantial lips across his brow affected him profoundly. The loving caress soothed his doubts and fears and warmed him through, calming him and quelling his doubts. If they accepted the propriety, the _rightness_, of his relationship with their daughter, then perhaps there was hope yet for his redemption, since the only person that still needed to forgive him was himself.

Ella turned to him and clung to him, tangling her fingers in his hair as he in turn clutched at her back, their breathing ragged, and they lay against the cushions of the sofa and, eventually, relaxed. All that needed to be said was said by their hands and arms as they clasped and stroked one another until both were calm.

A long while later Ella smiled up at him and he could see that she was at peace.  

"Do you think they liked me?" he asked, quirking an eyebrow. She laughed, as he had known she would, and he joined in, and the laughter was of joyous relief, healing, cleansing laughter, the kind of laughter born of miracles. 

Once their euphoria had passed and they had chosen and shrunk the items Ella wanted to take with her back to Hogwarts, they left the Muggle world behind and returned home. Hogwarts was home, for both of them. He had realised long ago that his family home meant nothing to him. He had neither financial nor emotional ties to the place and had not visited it in years. It stood empty, to the best of his knowledge, apart from a couple of house elves and, from time to time, Caius. Hogwarts, on the other hand, was his retreat and home to his personal library and laboratory; and his friends were there. He sighed inwardly. Admitting that he held a little more than merely professional regard for some of his colleagues did not come easily to him, but nevertheless it was true. As for the old man…well, Dumbledore held a place in his esteem that his own father had forfeited many years before his death. 

Now, it seemed that Ella felt equally strongly about their home. She seemed so relieved now that she had seen her family and laid their ghosts to rest, and he could tell that she was as glad to be home as he was. Strange, he mused, how their wildly differing backgrounds had resulted in such accord that they both now looked on the school as a safe haven. He envied her, despite the trauma he had caused her. He envied the love she had known, the unconditional affection and support that had been her bedrock in life and the source of all the fortitude she had shown since their deaths. His own life could have been so different, if it had begun like hers. If his parents had not thrust him into the company of Lucius Malfoy.

                                                                         ***

Malfoy was a study in arrogance. Snape had always known it, even when as a callow youth he would admire the older boy's self assurance from under downcast lashes, wondering how one man could contain such a surfeit of confidence. He soon learned, of course. By the time he had followed Malfoy's lead and been initiated as a Death Eater he had seen that Malfoy's demeanour was a potent combination of old money and dark magic, coiled around one another, woven together in inextricable links forged of influence and a consuming lust for power at any price.

Snape was not interested in power or social standing, and besides he knew that both were beyond his reach. No, his thirst was for knowledge and for the feeling of supremacy in his chosen field. For absolute mastery of his own area of interest. So, while he watched Lucius Malfoy enjoy all the trappings that came as part of membership of Voldemort's inner circle, he, Snape, toiled assiduously to further the Dark Lord's ends, since they appeared, at first, to mirror his own. It did not take long for Malfoy to sink into total depravity and Snape watched and wondered and was sickened, but did nothing. His interests would not have been best served by interfering. Let Malfoy have his way with the homeless and the dispossessed of the Muggle world; there were plenty other dark wizards around who would do the same and it would not behove Snape to draw attention to his sensibilities by trying to save each and every one. A discreet Obliviate or even Avada Kedavra, should there be no kinder way, was all that he would tell himself was required.

He had lived to regret his inaction in the years that had followed, watching Malfoy rise both in Voldemort's favour and in the upper echelons of wizarding society. Malfoy's kid leather gloves were not enough to hide the bloodstains on his hands, but it seemed that no-one except for Snape and Dumbledore either knew or cared that Lucius Malfoy was a liar and a vicious murderer. He was above the law, it seemed, and Snape was powerless to take matters into his own hands by means of a casually administered poison, for the Order 'needed' Malfoy, 'needed' Snape's special relationship with him. It sickened him, but he did what he had to do in order to maintain his cover and keep the Dark Lord's ear knowing that it was for the greater good. He had lost count of the number of times he had wished Malfoy dead by his hand, and after he found that Ella had been taken from Diagon Alley he cursed that greater good for it almost cost him his love.

The deadly potion Snape had brewed, as a new Death Eater of less than two years' standing, was a masterpiece and one in which he had had immense pride. An amalgam of several arcane concoctions and imbued with the strength of more dark curses than even Snape had previously been familiar, he had spent months on experimentation and adaptation until he had amassed parchment after parchment of closely written notes, cross-referenced and themselves annotated and charmed, so complex that no-one but he would have had the vaguest idea of where the procedural instructions started, or where they would lead.

He had destroyed them, of course. He had been forced into the unwelcome realisation that they would serve no purpose other than for ill, even though they would represent the most brilliant research he would do in his entire career. Once he knew to what purpose his creation had been twisted, he disowned it mentally and publicly, excusing his behaviour to the Dark Lord by allowing Voldemort's overwhelming vanity to take credit for it, telling him,

"All of my work was done for your greater glorification, Master. It's only fitting that the credit be yours, and I would prefer, if I may beg your indulgence, to step back and allow you to bask in your achievement."

Voldemort had been delighted and had ensured that Snape appreciated the fullest extent of his gratitude.

The poison Snape had devised was effective no matter what method was used in its administration. Ingested, it would cause searing stomach cramps in minutes as it reacted with the natural bile contained in the gut, as the essence of malevolent magic inserted into its very molecules during its concoction burst from it and combined with the little used herbs and other ingredients that formed its substance, creating a combustible magical explosion in the stomach which would spread rapidly through the body causing convulsions and a rather messy death.

The other method was in the form of a gaseous solution introduced into a household in relatively small quantities, where it would seek out oxygen and carbon dioxide molecules and change sufficient of them to render the air fatally toxic. Death would be agonisingly slow, and unavoidable once the first breaths of the poisoned air had entered the lungs. Breathing would become laboured and then almost impossible, and any increased swallowing due to alarm would ensure passage of the toxin to the stomach, which would then begin the cycle of cramping and convulsions.

At first, the Muggle subjects were simply brought to the meeting-hall in the usual way; abductees, the homeless, sometimes children, always lost. Never released, except into Death's insistent embrace. After the beatings, rapes and tortures inflicted by those Death Eaters with less delicate sensibilities, one or two of those Muggles left standing would be thrown into a magically warded cage in the ante room, to recover from their ordeal. Snape avoided that room, the fear and hope in their eyes sickening him since he knew he could do nothing to alleviate their plight. Even a whispered "Avada Kedavra" was out of the question since he was never left alone for long enough to avail himself of the opportunity to save them any further suffering.

He hated himself for his inability to act. He sometimes thought that to rationalise his inactivity in such a way was simply to hide his head in the sand, for even if he had had the opportunity, still he would have feared the repercussions for Voldemort would surely have discovered his action and meted out punishment. Snape knew how severe such punishments could be.

For a while he managed to convince himself that by refusing to be the one to administer the poison, under the guise of needing to observe and make careful notes on every step of the experiment, he was a step removed from the deed and therefore not culpable, never mind that he had invented the potion himself. After the third or fourth test subject, however, he knew that he had been hopelessly naïve.

Voldemort decided that field trips were a necessary element of the trials. Laboratory tests were all very well, but they did not allow for any variation in temperature, humidity, ventilation or room size, and he was keen to discover whether the toxicity level of the concoction in its gaseous form was sufficiently high to claim multiple victims in the same attack. 

Targets were chosen seemingly at random. Apart from certain criteria that had of necessity to be met, notably that the property should be in a secluded area, the Muggles should be observed to establish a pattern of activity, and a time should be decided upon that would allow for as many of the property's inhabitants as possible to be present, the Death Eaters selected to settle upon suitable targets were given a free rein to indulge whatever whim they wanted; large house or small, new or old, poor family or rich, town or country.

No matter what the location, the modus operandi was always the same. An advance guard of Death Eaters from the lower ranks would apparate close to the target and secure it by warding it with anti-disturbance charms. Then they would enter the property and locate its inhabitants, Confunding them and taking them, as far as possible without harming them, to a central point, usually the living room, where they would be Impelled to sit and wait mutely. Next, word would be sent to the higher placed Death Eaters and to Voldemort himself, and the target Muggles would sit in terrified silence, unaware of what horror was to come. Malfoy would take charge of the sealing of the room, directing Avery and Nott and sneering at Snape wherever possible for his reluctance to take part in the preparations and breathlessly anticipate the sport that was to come, and he would place a small stoppered vial of poisoned gas on the inevitable low table in the centre of the room.

At last, everything would be ready and a charm would be cast on the ceiling to render it transparent. Snape would retire to an upstairs room with a heavy heart, his boots feeling as if they were filled with lead as he made his dread way up the stairs. Voldemort and his loyal supporters would take their places above the hapless family in the arena below, and the sport would begin. 

"Liberato!" Malfoy would shout with a manic gleam in his eye, pointing his wand through the floor at the vial, and the stopper would release itself with a pop, allowing the silvery gas to curl out of the glass tube while the Muggles looked on in horror. Another charm released them from their immobility and returned their power of speech, and the Death Eaters looked on and sniggered as they flew to one another, trying in vain to open windows and doors, to plug the stopper back in, as if this dark genie could ever be returned to its bottle, eventually resorting to covering the vial with a cushion, or an upturned cut glass vase hastily emptied of flowers. Such desperate antics would soon reduce Voldemort's coterie to loud guffaws of mirth, and Snape would stand tight-lipped, emptying his mind of his anguish and disgust, and his sympathy and regret.

The gas was mercilessly efficient, and the mood in the upstairs room would change rapidly as the Muggles began to exhibit the promised symptoms. The atmosphere would be pregnant with anticipation, and breathing would become heavy as trousers were loosened and lips were licked with voyeuristic avidity. The more the Muggles suffered, the more the Death Eaters liked it, until their groans of arousal would compete with the muffled gasps and wheezing from the room below. Doubled over in pain, their faces would purple with the effort of filling their collapsing lungs until at last the colour drained from them and they lay still, slackjawed, showing their horror through unseeing eyes.

Snape witnessed many families die like that. Some were forgotten quickly, the places and the people blurring into one huge atrocity that Snape could not bear to examine too closely. Bad enough that he had to examine each and every corpse afterwards to measure the extent to which the poison had penetrated against the length of time they had taken to die.

One family among a very few, however, he did remember. A mother, dark-haired and comely, her husband, of moderate height and build, and their daughter. Blonde, ringletted, and the most beautiful child he had ever seen. Her mother held her on her lap as she died, smiling at her as she stroked her hair from her face, consoling her with whispered nothings as she herself struggled for breath and grimaced in pain as her stomach burned. 

Snape had done all manner of things in his short life that he now lived to regret. He had spurned the affection of his troublesome young brother. He had practised the darkest of curses and enjoyed it. He had allowed himself to be sodomised against a wall by a demon, allowed that same demon to pleasure him with his mouth until he groaned in shameful ecstasy. And now he was a murderer surrounded by the sharp salt stink of ejaculate, unable to take his eyes off the tableau below him. The father, already dead, sat on the sofa with his arm still draped around his wife's shoulders in a protective gesture, offering comfort where there could be none. The mother rocked her child in grotesque parody of a soothing rhythm, wracked by sudden convulsions, and her eyes were filled with compassion for her baby girl's suffering even as she took her own dying breaths, determined to hold on to life for as long as possible in order that her child not die alone.

This unknown woman's love for her child was pure and self-sacrificing and he had never felt so unclean.


	27. Absolution

**Author's Note**

Here is the final chapter of 'Chasing Darkness Away'. It has been a lot darker and more introspective than 'Snape In Love', and far more rewarding to write. Getting inside Snape's head has been a fascinating experience and I have tried to develop his character in a believable way. I do hope you have enjoyed it. Heartfelt thanks to everybody who has taken the time to review; it has been most encouraging and enriching too, since I can now call many of you friends.

And so, without any further ado….

****

****

****

**Chapter 27**

**Absolution**

By the time he had finished telling her she had long stopped listening. His voice was no more than an echo from far away and his words eddied in her mind like dying autumn leaves, and she had not the will to gather them and pin them down. She stared unseeing into the distance, the wildness of the landscape before her fading as her mind's eye replaced the scene with one whose horror she no longer needed to imagine.

He gripped her hand more tightly and that part of her that still sat beside him on the granite bench, warmed by the late afternoon sunlight and by his very nearness, was but dimly aware of his mounting panic as he asked,

"Ella? Love, talk to me?"

She turned to him slowly and looked past his eyes, indifferent to his agitation, and the voice with which she spoke seemed not to be her own, being flat and dull and coming from a mouth that may as well have been coated with cotton wool.

"Take Persephone. I'd like some time alone. I need to think."

She withdrew her hands from his and stood, her mind racing ahead of her and away from him as she made towards the comfort of the castle, heedless of his calling after her, his voice broken and fearful. She stumbled blindly up the slope, tears blurring her vision so that all she could see was the green of the lawn against the dark grey stone that drew her inexorably towards its magical embrace, comforting and welcoming. She had to get inside, she had to get away. She had to be on her own. 

On her own.

                                                                             ***

The corridors were deserted and she was glad of the solitude. Even the portraits were quiet, and the ghosts conspicuous only by their absence. Nevertheless she fled the main areas of the castle, making for the less used wing that housed the Astronomy Tower, far from the staff quarters and offices. Twin flames of anger and grief fuelled one another inside her and her pace slowed as her lungs began to burn. Halfway up a staircase a sudden stitch in her side caused her to double over in pain as the hot tears that were blinding her continued to spill down her cheeks, and she sank down on the cold stone steps and wept as the staircase ground into life.

By the time the pain in her hip caused by the step against which she lay had become unbearable, her tears had left dry salt tracks on her cheeks and she had stared so long at the grey stone that she felt she could almost see into it. It felt warm now against her cheek and she wished that she could be absorbed into its warmth, for whoever had said that stone was cold was surely wrong. This stone was welcoming, understanding, caring, and she knew it well. If she could become part of the stone she would never need to feel such sorrow again. She would become one with the ancient, ageless mystery of the school, of the bedrock, of the very earth, and her concerns would not matter any more. She closed her eyes as tears welled there once more. 

_Severus_.

She pushed herself up with her arms, taking a deep, shuddering breath and wincing as her body complained of her abuse. Her head felt light and as she got to her feet she had to clutch the banister lest she tumble backwards down the stairs. Looking up, she continued the ascent she had begun she knew not how long ago, and reached a dark, dusty fourth floor corridor. Wearily brushing her hair back from her face she set off along it, numb now, searching for something she could not define.

There was a door halfway down, on the right hand side of the corridor, small and unremarkable in every way save for one. It did not belong at Hogwarts, and Ella knew this because it belonged in the small Axminster-carpeted hall of her parents' home, where it led to the living room. She stared at it uncomprehendingly for a few moments, her mind refusing to accept what she saw while her contrary heart began to beat wildly in her chest as if it was demanding that it be freed of its incarceration there. She took a few faltering steps towards the door and noted that the only way it differed from the one she remembered was the small brass plaque with the intertwined letters "RoR" engraved on it. 

She stumbled slightly over a crack in the uneven flags but barely even noticed, until she stood before it with her hand resting on the ceramic doorknob. She recoiled in shock as the contact awoke memories so vivid that she could almost taste the familiar scent of Sunday dinner, and looked down at her feet, feeling comfortably cushioned by the soft woollen carpet even though she still saw the grey stone flags beneath. With one hand over her mouth she reached for the doorknob once more and turned it, her eyes widening as she saw what awaited her inside.

She was in the living room of her parents' house, the house in which she had lived for the first nineteen years of her life. As she turned to take it all in she could scarcely believe her eyes. Everything was exactly as she remembered; the floral three piece suite, the long low table made of Welsh slate, the ornately carved oak sideboard that had belonged to her great grandmother and had always been far too big for the room, her father's Muggle hi-fi unit with its expensive valve radio and old fashioned record deck. She crossed over to the window, wondering how far the illusion would stretch reality, and was slightly disappointed to discover that there was no suburban landscape outside with cars and lawns and children playing. Instead there were rolling hills and brooding mountains and she knew that if she were to look down to the right she might see Godric's Seat. She drew back quickly, a piercing anguish stabbing her soul.

_Severus._

She did not want to think of him at the moment so she turned from the window and sank on to the smaller of the two sofas, in her long accustomed place. It felt exactly as she remembered, and exactly as the real thing had felt beneath her in the storage unit weeks earlier. The lowering of her line of sight meant that her gaze now fell on a corner table under which had always been stored a red plastic box full of Phoebe's board books and brightly coloured toys. Seeing them again brought hot tears to her eyes and her vision blurred as she stared unblinkingly at items she had bought for her baby sister all those long years ago.

After a while she roused herself for long enough to curl her legs underneath her and she rested her head on the arm of the sofa. She was numb, her mind empty of all thoughts bar one; he had been there when they had died.

The shadows lengthened and the light dimmed. She stared fixedly at a point high on the far wall, where the light floral wallpaper gave way to simple plaster coving and an elaborately artexed ceiling. Although she knew there were no cars passing outside, she could hear the distant hum of their engines and saw the tramlines their headlights made across the wall and along the ceiling. She remembered childhood nights lying in her bed waiting for the Sandman, watching those very same lines shine through the gap in her curtains and travel across her bedroom.

The memory jolted her from her sombre reverie. Her bedroom had been immediately above this room which meant that it was from there that the Death Eaters and their vile leader – and Severus – had watched her family die. Her bedroom, her own private place with the daisy-patterned duvet on the bed and the Art Deco posters from Athena on the walls, the paper lantern shade and the cosmetics-cluttered dressing table. She scrambled upright and clutched her stomach as dry heaves wracked her body. They had stood in _her bedroom_ and watched through the floor as her mother and her father and her sister had succumbed to the most terrible poison imaginable. They had stood there and stroked themselves and they had laughed as her father had choked, mocked as her mother had coughed blood and bile, crowed as her precious baby sister, her beloved Phoebe, had alternately stiffened and writhed in pain on her mother's knee crying dry tears of uncomprehending torment. They had robbed her of them and they had violated her to do it.

And he had been there. He had watched. He had been a part of it.

She paced the room hugging her arms around her body, trying to quell her nausea until eventually it receded a little and she sat back down again, sighing deeply. She needed to think, and she closed her eyes for a moment trying to tamp down the queasiness that still threatened to reassert itself. She was sitting in the living room of her parents' house, or at least a representation of it that the school seemed to believe she needed. The Room of Requirement was evidently directing her to come to terms with Severus' latest revelation, one way or another. 

For the first time since her desperate flight from him earlier that afternoon, she wondered how he was, and where he was. She thought for a moment about Persephone, knowing that whatever else he was doing at that moment he would have ensured their daughter's comfort was not compromised by his own distress. She knew that he _would_ be distressed by her behaviour, and rightly so; he had always been terribly insecure in her love and she supposed that she now knew exactly why he had always felt that he did not deserve happiness, least of all with her.

And she did love him. Her feelings for him had never been in doubt and they would never change; but she needed to take stock of what she had learned, surely he would understand that. The Room of Requirement seemed to understand it, for as she sat the physical shapes around her began to shift and coalesce into different walls and darker furnishings until she realised with some measure of alarm that she was sitting on a bench in the corner of a smoky, noisy bar. The Room had taken her back to the very pub wherein she had caroused in blissful ignorance while she was orphaned by a monster.

She looked around, turning to face the bar just as the barman reached for the remote control and turned up the volume of the small television above the long row of optics. With a sudden adrenaline thrill she recognised her home, cordoned off with yellow tape and expressionless uniformed policemen, and her heart pounded wildly in her chest in a reprise that had been delayed for sixteen years. 

_Her mouth was dry and her eyes wide as she screamed at the barman to turn up the sound, leaping from her seat and lunging for the remote control, watching the green lines march across the screen until they reached the far side and the barman shook his head and turned away._

Her surroundings changed again and she was back in the familiar living room. Reliving it all was desolation and yet she relived every step. The journey home had been interminable. Back at her lodgings and unaware of how she had got there, she was greeted by two WPCs who had been professionally sympathetic and had helped her gather some belongings before helping her into the back of a police car and driving her two hundred miles down a dark motorway, back to her home town.

Her home town, but not her home. They had not taken her home, oh no. It was three days before the forensic experts had given up their fruitless search for evidence and by the time they had finished emptying every drawer and examining every detail of her old life it was no longer her home. She had taken nothing from it, nothing at all, instructing the family solicitor to 'deal with it' and settle the bill and his fee from the estate.

She had wanted to see the bodies, to try to comprehend what had happened and to say her goodbyes. It was impossible, they told her. She had wanted to give them a proper wizarding funeral, but she had not been there. If she had been able to intervene before the Muggle authorities had swarmed all over her life and finished off the decimation Voldemort had put into play, then she would have been able to cast wards and seek help of her own. She wondered to whom she would have turned. It would have been Dumbledore, of course, but she had not been there. She had been two hundred miles away from home and she had not even felt the moments of their deaths. She had been too late to turn to him for help and by the time she had shaken off the caring attentions of the police counsellors she felt too guilty and ashamed to turn to him for solace. She should have been there with them. 

The room shifted and shimmered again and she was no longer alone. Her father was sitting on the sofa beside her mother and Phoebe was cradled in his arms. They were terrified, staring in horror as silvery fumes curled and licked their way out of the neck of a long glass vial which lay on its side on the low slate table. Instinctively, Ella looked up to the ceiling expecting to see the gathered Death Eaters through its translucency, but all she could see was the chandelier and the swirling plaster patterns that surrounded it. Half relieved that she did not have to see the jeers and the sick pleasure they took from their sport or  catch sight of the expression on her husband's face as he bore witness, she turned her attention back to her loved ones and wept as she watched them die, one by one.

Much later, when thankfully they had faded from view and her skin was taut with dried tears, she reached for her emerald and clutched it in her fist, afraid to learn what her flight from Severus had done to him and hearing her mother's voice in her head as she accepted where her future truly lay.

_He witnessed your deaths. He never told me._

"He's telling you now, my darling_._

_He watched and did nothing_.

What could he have done?

_He should never have gone along with it; he should never have made the poison._

But he did. And it's done.

_He still makes potions._

Yes, he does.

_How can he bear to?_

Part of him can't, but he does it anyway.

_He's done it all these years, hating himself._

He repents. He has lived with his regret.

_I wasn't there with you._

No, and so you have lived with your regret too, but you must let it go.

_I ought to have been there with you._

You couldn't have been.

_But I should have been._

But then you too would have been lost, and what then of him?

_We would never have known one another_.

You needed to be here, now, for him, with him.

_My life is with him._

Your life was meant for this.

_I love him more than my life._

He is your life."

_He is my life._

_Severus._

She looked into the emerald, stroking its surface gently as she watched her husband pace the length of their rooms from end to end, Persephone in his arms. She felt a sharp pang of sorrow as she was struck by the realisation that she had left him sitting at Godric's Seat with their daughter, just as in the nightmarish vision Voldemort had shown her. She wondered whether he remembered that; of course he did. He would doubtless be brooding on it at that very moment, castigating his weakness in allowing her back into his life and convinced that she would be seeking out Sirius Black to rescue her from the farcical horror that was her marriage. His face was grim, his mouth set in a tight line, and even though the greenish cast of the emerald distorted all that she saw, still she knew how he suffered.

_Oh, Severus!_

She had lingered in the Room of Requirement for long enough. Scrambling to her feet she hastened to the door, hesitating as she pulled it open but only for long enough to take a last look at something she knew she would never see again, and to whisper,

"Thank you."

                                                                           ***

"Ella? Love, talk to me!" he had said, but he had known that she would flee. Finally he had told her the truth, the complete and unabridged version, and finally he had fulfilled his own prophecy by driving her away. He watched her run, calling after her in the vain hope that he could halt her flight, but deep in his heart he knew better. Persephone mewled softly in his arms and he held her close to him, wondering what would become of him without her. He nuzzled her tiny head with his nose, her fragrant baby scalp sending a rush of love through him until his breath caught and his eyes prickled with emotion. He could not be without them, he simply could not. They were his life, his all, his past present and future. If Ella left and took their daughter with her…

He shuddered and fought the urge to howl with pain. Carefully he placed Persephone in her pushchair and began the slow trek back to the school. He had presented Ella with a raft of evidence and his guilt had never been in question, so now he would return to their rooms and he would wait for her verdict, and then he would relinquish his child to her and begin his sentence.

Hours passed. He performed each duty to Persephone as if it was his last; the last time he would change her, the last time he would feed her and wind her, the last time he would cradle her in his arms and press the tip of his finger to her palm and watch as she grasped it, the last time he would look into her deep blue eyes and feel the delirious joy of her perfection and her connection to him. In between, as she slept, he sat watching her and wondering how he would ever manage to live without her near. 

Later, as the shadows lengthened and night's cold fingers traced their way across the nursery, he adjourned to their sitting room and sat by the lifeless grate, letting the darkness and the silent solitude creep into his bones and consume him. He did not know where she was, and he did not know what form her revenge would take; would she storm in to their rooms in a blaze of righteous indignation, grab their baby and spit in his face on her way out, promising him that he would never lay eyes on either of them again? Or would she slip into the room with her hand clasped in Sirius Black's, telling him that at last the scales had fallen from her eyes and she knew where her future lay and it was far from him? 

Ah, Sirius Black. Voldemort had shown her visions of a life with Sirius Black and she had repudiated it, but that had been before, when he was still deluding himself that she could love him; and one part of Voldemort's vision had already come true, after all. She had left him and Persephone alone at Godric's Seat. Surely that was a portent that could not easily be dismissed.

Severus began to sink ever deeper into a mire of despair, the thoughts whirling around his brain a miasma of conflicting images and memories. All the time there was a lone voice in his head telling him that she needed this time away from him in order that she could come to terms with the enormity of his confession and come back to him, for she had known already the greater part of it and had loved him all the same. Had married him in spite of it all, telling him it only made her love him more. This was just one more piece of information for her to process, the last piece in the jigsaw that was their life. As time went on he had to work very hard to silence that dissenting voice for it was trying to fill him with hope that he could not afford to have.

He sat, and he waited. A beam of silver cast its light across the room, illuminating the door at its far end with a ghostly luminescence. _Lighting her way back to him_, he thought mordantly, and almost laughed. He bit it back because it threatened to become a sob and there would be time enough for howling to the moon later, after she had gone.

At last he heard the familiar sound of her footfalls as they clipped along the corridor. Such a sound would normally make his heart sing with joy, but tonight it gave out a dirge-like threnody. He tried to ascertain her mood from the rhythm of her step, and scoffed at himself in disgust for the desperation inherent in such an attempt. Ah, but was that not the crux of the matter? He was desperate and would soon be distraught, for now the door creaked open and everything that made his life worthwhile was to be snatched back from his pleading grasp.

He watched as she stepped inside and closed the door behind her. The shaft of moonlight made her insubstantial as a wraith, and bleached her of all colour. She could almost be an old sepia photograph, he mused, and it was quite apt for soon all he would have left of her would be old and fading memories.

"Have you made a decision?" _Will you leave me again?_

His voice, once he had found it, was hollow and the words echoed around the room and inside his head and he wanted to scream so that he could drown out her answer.

"There was never a decision to make."

He did not know what she meant. The implication was that she might stay, but he knew better than to trust the partisan pleas of his heart, and besides, she was moving across the room now and her face was in shadow. He could not ascertain her mood because the tension in the air was coiled so tightly around him that he was almost suffocating in it.

"Severus, are you alright?" she asked, coming to sit before him, perching on the edge of the low table and resting her hands on his knees.

"Am _I_?" he replied, more harshly than he intended. "I'm not the one who's just realised they've been trapped in marriage to a monster who just stood by – _stood by_! – while their family – "

"Severus, no. No more. Please. We've talked so much over the last few days. I don't want to talk any more! I just want to - "

"Ella, I understand. I've always expected it. Just – wherever you go, please, let me see our daughter once in a while." His voice cracked and his lips tightened as he tried to preserve some small measure of dignity. Ella sighed and lowered her head and he balled his fists to prevent himself reaching for his wand and Obliviating her of all that he had spent the last days confessing. 

She reached into her robe and withdrew her wand, muttering "Lumos!" and illuminating the wall sconces with a soft warm glow. 

"Oh, Severus. You are so quick to jump to the wrong conclusion! I don't want to _talk_ any more because I just want to _be_ with you! I am _so_ sorry. I just ran off and left you sitting there, and I've been gone such a long time. I hardly realised how late it was, you see, but I should have thought of you, I _knew_ you'd be worried."

He swallowed hard.

"Where were you?"

"At home."

Severus frowned, failing to understand. She looked up and saw his confusion and continued gently,

"The Room of Requirement. I've never seen it before, but today there it was…and it was home, so I went in and I sat and thought, and then…"

She trailed off, looking past him and into a corner where the shadows danced in the flickering firelight from the sconces. He studied her closely, drinking in every detail of her face and hoping even though it ran against all the odds that it would not be the last time he was allowed such a luxury. He dared not interrupt her or try to hurry her along so that he could have his answer, in case the sparks of hope that were igniting in his breast were suddenly extinguished by her change of heart. 

"I saw it all, Severus. Everything. Oh, not you, not any one in my bedroom watching – " At this he started, horror-stricken, remembering her room, Ella's room if he had but known, and she grasped his hands and leaned towards him earnestly, their knees touching – "but I saw Phoebe, and Mum and Dad. I was there when they died, this time. I _needed_ to be there, you see, _with them_. The Room let me _do_ that!"

"And – and what now?" he said carefully, frozen to the spot while he waited for her reply. She looked at him gravely and sighed, releasing his hands. He felt a leaden weight in his stomach and no words would come when he opened his mouth to speak, but she was not getting up to leave. She climbed on to the sofa beside him, kneeling, and slipped her arms around his neck, pulling him to her. He closed his eyes in relief and held her to him, splaying out his hands across her back and underneath her hair, revelling in the sensation as it slipped over his fingers. He buried his face in her neck and kissed the soft skin behind her ear.

"Now, we carry on," she said softly.

"I thought I'd lost you," he confessed in a whisper. "I couldn't bear to lose you again, Ella."

"You'll never lose me, love. Never," she murmured, stroking his hair and planting kisses along his brow and on his eyelids, making her way tenderly to his waiting lips. "Let me show you how happy you make me." She spoke these last into his mouth and he moaned with relief as the tips of their tongues touched. He hardly dared to believe that nothing had changed, when everything had changed. She still loved him, she still needed him, despite or perhaps because of his complete honesty, and she was kissing all of his fear away.

He thought all this, and yet when they parted and she rested her forehead against his he still stiffened for a moment, still fearing that now she would tell him that she had made a mistake, that kissing him again had not been the same as before, not now that she knew the whole truth of it; that there was a taint to their love now that would not be expunged. That the rock of her love was crumbling into a seething ocean of remorse and that she would never forgive herself for loving him. That she would leave, soon, in order to hold on to the last vestiges of her self respect. That it was over.

She saw the fear in his eyes, for she said,

"Severus, I mean it. Believe it. _Please_."

He tried. Pushing away all of his fears, all of his regrets and self recriminations, he let himself embrace her love for him with a whole and an open heart that swelled until it pained him that they were two souls and not one. Crushing her to his breast he heard her gasp with pleasure and he leaned forward, twisting her underneath him until the weight of his body pushed her into the soft cushions of the sofa. He looked down at her, her face flushed with love, moist lips parted in a soft smile and her hair fanning out around her like a nimbus of copper in the warm firelight, and was hypnotised once more by her eyes. So many shades of green showed so many different moods, and perhaps it was simply a combination of the firelight and his intense relief but tonight he saw even more. Tonight he saw an unblemished future, if he would just relinquish his guilt, as she had. She had always been so certain of what life held in store for them. All he had to do was let go and allow her to take him along with her. His gaze dropped to her lips and his instincts took over as his arms slipped under her and pulled their bodies together. Her hands were tangling in his hair in the way he loved so well, stroking him. _Needing_ him, desperately. He felt giddy with love for her and even though his inclination was to talk, to analyse the reasons for her decision to stay in order to make absolutely sure that his future was secure, it was evident as his fingers grazed the clasp of her bra that they both had a raging need to consummate their new understanding.  He unfastened it expertly, feeling her shiver underneath him. There would be a lifetime for them to talk, and perhaps after all this closeness was enough, for now. Her lips found his hungrily and as his hand slid under her blouse to free her heavy breasts she plunged her tongue into his mouth and arched into his hand. He could not suppress an exultant smile and she felt it and returned it, their teeth clashing together.

"Do you believe me?" she asked breathlessly, opening the top buttons of his shirt and sliding her hand underneath.

"Yes!" he replied, realising at last that he meant it. 

"_Then love me_!" Her hand tightened in his hair and she pulled his head back, reaching up to drag her mouth along his jaw and down to his shoulder, drawing the skin into her mouth and making him hiss as the sensitive nerve endings there sent an almost unbearable tingle straight to the small of his back. He tried half heartedly to wriggle from her grasp and she laughed, a deep, throaty, irresistibly alluring sound that never failed to fill him with joy. "You're not going anywhere, Severus Snape!" she said.

"Not even the bedroom?" he asked as he moved down her body, positioning himself between her legs and removing her upper garments while nuzzling her breasts, kissing and licking the creamy white flesh while her hands worked unerringly to unfasten his trousers.

"Not unless we can accomplish it like this," she answered, pushing his trousers down past his hips and kneading his buttocks, pulling him against her and making him groan in anticipation of the promise in her voice.

"Easily done, then," he said huskily, embracing her. "Apparate!"

She screamed in surprise as they disapparated with a loud crack, only to reappear on their bed, entwined as closely as before.

"Oh, you beast!" she exclaimed, but her eyes were dancing and he laughed breathlessly, still completely overcome with relief as she pushed him off her only to straddle him, her voluptuous breasts inches from his face and her still-clothed thighs gripping his bare flesh and grinding against his hardness wantonly. "I'll make you pay for frightening me like that!"

"Frighten you? By doing something completely natural that wizards and witches have done for centuries?" Snape's breathing was becoming laboured now and his hands reached for her breasts.

"Apparation doesn't _feel_ natural!" she retorted, covering his hands with hers and pressing them against her. "And you _know_ how much I hate it! But speaking of things witches and wizards have done for centuries…"

Ella stretched out on top of him and licked his lips before claiming them in a tender, teasing kiss. His hands still cupped her breasts and he moaned as she began to move down his body and out of his reach until she stood at the foot of the bed. He propped himself up on his elbows and watched as she unfastened her skirt and let it fall to the floor, revealing the small lace triangle of her panties. He smiled wolfishly as she hooked her thumbs under the elastic and drew them down her legs until they too were on the floor and she stood naked before him, her eyes heavy lidded with passion as they travelled the length of his body. Licking her lower lip unconsciously she climbed back on to the bed, very slowly, settling herself between his thighs. He was so hard that it was painful and as she nuzzled his erection with her cheek her tongue flicked out to swipe over the drizzle of pre-come that was leaking from the tip. He threw back his head and groaned her name as she took the base of his shaft in her hand, and he gripped the sheets convulsively as he felt her mouth envelop him. Bliss, always bliss, and as she took him deeper into her mouth he arched up to meet her mindlessly. He lifted his head to look down at her, but the sight of her hair spilling across his thighs and her head moving up and down in his lap was too much for him to bear and he had to reach down and push her shoulders, mumbling incoherently, 

"Ella, no…no more, I can't stand it…here, come here, I need to be inside you, love, let me come inside you…"

She cut him off by kissing him firmly, swirling her tongue around his in mimicry of the action he had interrupted, and he tasted the salt of him on her. Sliding one hand down over her buttocks he slipped the other between their bodies and through her damp curls, feeling her quiver as he found her centre, stroking it in the way he knew would make her scream.

He knew her so well, he mused, listening to her little whimpers as they vibrated in his mouth, for he would not let her break their kiss; and when he reached lower so that he could insert his fingers into her core and curl them around until they scraped over the clustered nerve endings deep within her, he moved his free hand back up to her head, crushing their mouths together as her lips drew back into a cry of ecstasy. Flipping them over so that she was beneath him, he parted her legs with his and gazed deep into her eyes, questioning.

"Now, Severus! Oh gods, _now_!" He slid into her, exhaling raggedly and cupping her beloved face in his hands, and her eyes widened and then she moaned with pleasure. "_Aaah_!"

"_Ella_…" he murmured, cheek to cheek with her, nuzzling her ear and feeling her nails rake his back as her hands sought purchase. "Oh, my Ella!"

He began to move inside her, slowly at first so that they could both adjust to the exquisite sensation of oneness. It was always that way; an incredible conjoining that made him wonder at the rightness of the world and everything in it that had conspired to bring them to that point. He supposed that was one of the more surprising things that his relationship with Ella had taught him; the Fates schemed incessantly, of course, spinning the skeins of lives into tapestries of varying hues, but they did not, after all, _always_ conspire against him. He lifted his head and their gazes locked, smouldering passion reflected back at him, setting him aflame with its incandescence, urging him on to new heights as her fingers tightened on his shoulders and her whimpers increased in pitch. Her heat was incredible, her velvet wetness caressing him until he thought he would run mad with longing for her, for surely not even this was enough, surely a melding of their bodies as well as their souls was all that would be able to calm the fever that set his every nerve tingling. Blood was rushing in his ears and he gave himself over to the thrust of her hips against his, answering her moans with a steady, breathless chant of her name, _Ella_, his mantra, his centre, his life, his soul. Then at last he was hovering on the very edge of release and it was sublime. 

He had heard it said that one's life could pass before one's eyes at the moment of death. Over the years he had had good cause to brood on such a likelihood, facing the possibility on occasions too many to enumerate. His would not have contained many happy scenes, until Ella. Now all that he wanted to do was live and create more memories with her, so that when his time came he would face the ferryman with a nostalgic smile on his face. He had also heard it said that each orgasm was a   little like dying, and so he was not surprised that all the love he felt for Ella, and had ever felt, came back to him now, a kaleidoscope of images flashing in and out of his mind's eye. It was indescribable and all the time he was within her and she was all around him, and he knew, he _knew_ the rightness of it. 

Drowning in the turbulent depths of her eyes, he wrapped himself around her and they clung to one another as the waves of their orgasms began to crash over them. He knew how much she loved him and he knew exactly how he made her feel, and so as she cried out his name and arched into him he thrust in deeper, once, twice, three times, and her muscles began to spasm around his shaft. Her bliss pushed him over the edge and he came into her, his wife, his life's mate, shouting out her name with the most joyous elation he had ever felt.

Afterwards, when they lay tangled together in an exhausted afterglow, he kissed her. Side by side, their noses touching and their eyes smouldering with the embers of their shared passion, their lips brushed and caressed while their gentle fingers touched and stroked hair and cheeks. They loved one another deep into the night and beyond, grateful to have found and healed one another and content in the knowledge that each had chased the other's darkness away.

                                                           **THE END**.


End file.
